09900K* 
PACIFIC  AVftNUB 
10  BEACH.  CALfP. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE 


BY 


EDGAR   FAWCETT 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HOUSE  AT  HIGH  BRIDGE,"   "SOCIAL  SILHOUETTES, 
"TINKLING  CYMBALS,"    "THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD,"   "AN 
AMBITIOUS  WOMAN,"  "  RUTHERFORD,"  ETC. 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR    AND    COMPANY 

2U  UTremont  Stmi 

1888 


COPYRIGHT,  1887, 
BY  B.  T.  BUSH  AND  SON, 

AND  1888, 
BY  TIC  KNOB  AND  COMPANY. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


ELECTROTYPED  BY 
C.  J.  PETERS  &  SON,  BOSTON. 

U.S.A. 


2T0  mg  Jrfentr, 
J.   V.   FBI  CHARD, 

I  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATE   THIS    CHRONICLE 
OF 

CONTEMPORAKY    LIFE. 


2061844 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 


i. 

THE  funeral  was  over.  Olivia  had  got  home  from 
Greenwood  about  an  hour  ago.  The  house  was  still, 
now,  as  the  dead  burden  that  had  so  lately  been  borne 
from  it.  After  a  while  the  girl  had  stolen  to  a  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  nude,  creaking  trees  in  Wash- 
ington Square,  and  the  black  blotches  made  on  the 
pavements  by  the  drying  rain.  May  had  come  in  raw 
and  petulant,  this  year ;  the  morning  had  begun  show- 
ery and  savage  with  gusts,  but  toward  afternoon  a 
fitful  sun  had  pierced  transient  fissures  in  the  bluish 
rolling  clouds. 

Olivia  soon  withdrew  from  the  window  and  pulled 
down  its  shade  again,  with  a  sense  of  having  violated 
one  of  the  dreary  formulas  of  usage  on  such  occasions 
by  lifting  it  at  all.  Her  sorrow,  that  would  have 
been  anguish  a  few  years  ago,  was  now  inseparable 
from  a  grateful  relief.  For  months  her  father  had 
suffered  harshly  ;  her  own  tireless  nursing  of  him  had 
taught  her  to  be  more  of  a  woman  than  her  maidenly 
blue  eyes,  the  pink,  fresh  curves  of  her  face  and  the 
sunny  floss  of  hair  over  her  forehead  at  all  plainly 
showed ;  for  Olivia  had  the  kind  of  looks  that  a  care- 
less gazer  can  easily  pronounce  as  commonplace  as 

7 


8  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

they  are  pretty.  It  was  only  when  you  gave  her  a 
little  observant  heed  that  you  saw  how  her  youth  had 
sweetly  misrepresented  her,  and  how  her  evident  nine- 
teen years  or  so  had  cast  about  the  real  womanly 
potency  of  her  demeanor  an  undue  girlish  glamour. 

She  dropped  into  an  easy-chair,  after  darkening  the 
window  at  which  she  had  committed  her  late  rather 
reckless  indiscretion  ;  and  just  as  she  fell  into  the  list- 
less posture  which  the  tufted  seat  induced,  a  lady 
appeared  within  the  room. 

The  new-comer  went  straight  to  Olivia  and  took 
her  hand.  The  girl  scarcely  moved,  looking  up  at 
her  companion  with  a  sad,  placid  smile,  and  at  the 
same  time  allowing  her  extended  hand  to  be  patted  in 
the  most  softly  sympathetic  way. 

"It  was  a  dreadfully  cold  funeral,  wasn't  it?" 
Olivia  said,  with  an  intonation  that  seemed  half  to 
imply  soliloquy. 

"  Cold?"  returned  the  lady,  who  was  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Ottarson,  the  sister  of  her  mother,  dead  years  ago. 
"  Of  course  it  was  cold,  with  all  those  stuck-up  folks 
going  to  it !  Gracious  me  !  There  wasn't  one  of  'em, 
Olivia,  that  went  to  Greenwood  for  any  reason  on 
earth  except  because  he  was  a  Van  Rensselaer." 

Olivia  gave  a  little  weary  shake  of  the  head.  "  I 
am  a  Van  Rensselaer,  too,  Aunt  Thyrza,"she  said, 
still  smiling. 

"  Who  said  you  wasn't  ? "  cried  the  lady,  clasping 
tighter  the  hand  that  she  held  and  patting  it  with 
added  zest.  "That's  just  what  I  mean.  But  they 
didn't  care  a  bit  about  it  all.  They  only  went  be- 
cause they're  clannish,  and  thought  it  was  respectable 
to  flock  round  one  of  their  own  blood  like  that." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  9 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you're  right." 

"  I  think  I  kind  o'  scared  'em,"  pursued  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son,  with  her  leaping  staccato  laugh  that  one  might 
believe  no  solemnity  short  of  her  own  burial  could 
quite  destroy.  "I'm  different  from  anybody  they're 
accustomed  to  see.  I  ain't  —  what's  the  word?  — 
swell.  To  be  swell  you've  got  to  put  on  airs,  and  I 
never  could  do  that.  Whenever  I  tried  I  always  felt 
as  if  somebody  was  giggling  and  making  faces  at  me 
behind  my  back." 

"  I  doubt  if  you  ever  did  try,"  said  Olivia.  "  It's 
altogether  too  artificial  a  part  for  any  one  to  play  who 
has  your  natural  honesty." 

"  Oh,  pooh !  I  ain't  half  the  saint  you  seem  to 
think  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson,  putting  her  head  side- 
ways, and  rolling  her  handsome  black  eyes  at  Olivia, 
in  mock  mutiny  and  challenge. 

"  If  you  had  been  a  saint,"  Olivia  answered,  with 
the  smile  that  has  such  a  light  of  pathos  in  it  when 
the  face  from  which  it  gleams  does  not  turn  a  whit 
less  sombre,  "  I  should  not  have  liked  you  half  as  well 
as  I  do." 

Mrs.  Ottarson  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  I'm  glad, 
then,  that  I'm  a  sinner  instead,"  she  exclaimed  jo- 
vially. And  now  she  sat  down  beside  Olivia,  still 
retaining  her  hand. 

One  might  think  that  aunt  and  niece  had  never 
been  more  dissimilar  than  these  two.  It  would  have 
seemed  as  absurd  not  to  concede  that  Mrs.  Ottarson 
was  vulgar  as  to  declare  that  the  peony  is  not  gaudy. 
She  had  a  face  as  dark  as  a  gypsy's,  which  had  per- 
haps been  seemly  enough  before  it  became  touched 
by  those  merciless  lines  and  wrinkles  that  might  col- 


10  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

lectively  be  termed  one  of  Time's  many  war  charts ; 
for  alas !  the  old  campaigner  never  shows  himself 
more  destructive  than  when  he  uses  the  human 
countenance  for  a  map  of  his  future  hostile  inten- 
tions !  Mrs.  Ottarson's  figure,  however,  was  admi- 
rably youthful.  It  seemed  almost  buxomly  to  refute 
the  fifty  years  which  her  swart,  self-reliant,  amiable 
face  asserted.  She  clad  it  in  attire  that  clung  to  its 
arches  and  slopes  with  a  nice  flexibility  of  adhesion. 
She  was  what  we  must  have  pronounced  a  stylish 
woman ;  she  would  have  liked  to  be  thought 
"  stylish  ; "  she  would  never  have  held  it  the  half- 
vagabond  word  it  has  grown.  To-day  she  wore 
mourning  for  the  husband  of  her  dead  sister ;  it 
was  jauntily  patterned  and  shot  through  with  fur- 
tive purples  in  the  way  of  embellishment.  It  was 
quite  too  ornamental  to  be  called  mourning  at  all  ; 
but  then  Mrs.  Ottarson  placed  a  deep  faith  in  orna- 
ment. All  that  was  sterling  about  her  lay  somehow 
beneath  the  surface.  Continually  misjudged  as  flip- 
pant and  superficial,  she  managed  to  keep  healthfully 
beating  a  heart  of  great  tenderness  and  sincerity  under 
her  befurbelowed  bodices.  It  is  not  meant  that  those 
who  knew  her  well  misunderstood  her  native  kindness 
and  charity.  Only  the  indifferent  gaze  failed  to 
detect  either,  and  most  certainly  Olivia  Van  Rensse- 
laer's  was  not  of  this  tendency. 

Olivia  had  always  heard  her  late  father  mention 
Mrs.  Ottarson,  if  he  mentioned  her  at  all,  with  a 
half-repressed  sneer.  A  good  many  years  of  Hous- 
ton Van  Rensselaer's  life  with  his  daughter  had 
been  lived  abroad.  The  wide  basement-house,  with 
its  dormer  windows,  its  spider-like  iron  stoop-trellises 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  11 

and  its  antique  Colonial  doorway,  had  been  visited  by 
him  four  or  five  times  during  the  past  twelve  or  fif- 
teen years.  He  brought  Olivia  across  the  ocean 
with  him  whenever  such  visits  were  paid  to  his 
native  land.  The  little  girl  delighted  in  these  trips ; 
she  held  it  rare  fun  to  be  taken  to  America,  and  the 
elm-trees  and  poplars  verging  South  Washington 
Square  would  rise  afterward  through  her  retrospec- 
tive visions  of  New  York  during  the  humdrum  dis- 
ciplines of  her  pension  oversea.  On  such  occasions 
Olivia  was  always  permitted  to  see  her  aunt.  She 
did  not  know  then  that  Mrs.  Ottarson  kept  a  board- 
ing-house somewhere  up-town,  and  that  the  appear- 
ance of  this  lady  at  all  in  South  Washington  Square 
was  solely  a  tribute  paid  by  her  punctilious  parent  to 
the  memory  of  his  deceased  wife.  He  had  loved  that 
wife  loyally ;  he  was  Houston  Van  Rensselaer,  and 
when  he  had  married  her,  a  blooming  girl  of  nineteen, 
all  his  relations  had  held  up  their  hands  at  the  odious 
and  impolitic  match.  The  bridegroom  had  not  been 
of  democratic  views.  He  possessed  many  of  those 
New  World  prejudices  regarding  "  family "  and 
"birth"  which  are  at  the  present  time  a  source 
of  irony  for  European  comment.  He  considered 
his  stock  exceedingly  important ;  he  had  quite  as 
much  veneration  for  it  as  the  aristocracies  of  trans- 
atlantic countries  had  ignorance  of  it.  But  he  had, 
nevertheless,  married  a  Miss  Jenks.  He  had  privately 
looked  upon  his  marriage  as  a  very  imprudent  and 
even  ridiculous  step.  But  he  had  taken  the  step 
because  love,  with  a  hymeneal  torch  grasped  in  its 
rosy  hand,  had  too  potently  lured  him  toward  what 
lay  beyond.  Miss  Jenks  had  been  poor.  Her  people 


12  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

dwelt  in  Macdougal  Street,  only  a  step  from  the  Van 
Rensselaer  home  in  which  he  had  been  reared  as  a 
boy.  The  Jenkses  were  a  race  which  his  own  kindred 
roundly  affirmed  to  be  of  "  low  extraction."  If  they 
had  had  money  it  might  have  made  a  striking  differ- 
ence; for  there  is  one  point  about  our  American  pa- 
trician in  which  he  may  be  relied  upon  never  to  differ 
from  that  foreign  model  whereof  he  stands  nearly 
always  the  patient  imitator:  he  is  invariably  ap- 
peased by  what  he  rates  a  misalliance  when  it  is  a 
true  mariage  cFargent.  But  the  Jenkses  were  not 
only  poor ;  they  were  destitute  of  the  least  caste ;  the 
father  and  his  two  daughters,  in  wholesome  domestic 
conspiracy,  managed  to  make  the  combined  profits  of 
carpentry  and  dressmaking  yield  them  a  fairly  thrifty 
income.  They  had  not  even  education,  ran  the  wail 
of  the  Auchinclosses  and  the  Satterthwaites,  both 
families  being  near  relatives  of  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer. 
It  was  all  quite  too  horrible.  "We  shall  not  visit 
her,"  rose  the  austere  feminine  chorus.  "  We  are 
extremely  sorry  ;  but  Houston  has  brought  it  upon 
himself.  No,  we  shall  not  visit  her."  And  the 
Auchinclosses  and  Satterthwaites  did  not. 

Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  had  no  intention  that  they 
should  —  at  least,  not  for  a  considerable  time  to 
come.  He  married  his  young  wife  in  the  quietest 
way.  The  wedding  took  place  in  the  back  parlor 
of  the  little  Macdougal  Street  house.  The  season 
was  early  June,  and  the  windows  were  open,  so 
that  you  could  see  the  interior  of  Mr.  Abner  Jenks's 
carpenter-shop,  which  was  reached  by  a  short  alley  at 
the  side  of  the  house  proper.  But  some  big  pink 
roses  were  blowing  in  an  intermediate  court-yard 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  13 

between  walls  of  mellow  brickwork  that  gleamed 
richer  because  of  the  summer  blue  above  it,  and  a 
bird  was  singing  from  a  cage  not  far  away.  The 
blitheness  of  that  bird's  matins  would  not  have  led 
you  to  dream  that  anything  so  dreadful  was  going  on 
a  little  distance  below  them  as  the  nuptials  of  a  true- 
blooded  Knickerbocker  with  the  daughter  of  a  car- 
penter. Inside  it  seemed  a  little  sadder.  Red- 
handed,  shining-faced  and  somewhat  moist-eyed  as 
well,  Abner  Jenks  stood  watching  his  daughter. 
Thyrza,  the  bride's  sister,  made  no  effort  to  keep 
back  her  tears.  She  disapproved  the  marriage 
quite  as  much  from  her  point  of  view  as  did  the 
Auchinclosses  and  Satterthwaites  from  theirs;  she 
thought  Houston  Van  Rensselaer  a  stiff,  sour  person, 
and  she  trembled  at  the  severities  of  tutelage  to  which 
Rosalie  must  be  hereafter  subjected.  For  the  rest, 
Rosalie  herself  looked  appositely  contented.  Her 
awkward  veil,  her  ill-fitting  gown,  and  the  general 
air  of  commonness  about  her  entire  bridal  gear,  did 
not  prevent  her  from  being,  nevertheless,  an  extremely 
lovely  bride. 

It  was  the  smallest  of  weddings.  No  kin  of 
Houston  Van  Rensselaer's  had  been  bidden  to  it; 
he  had  merely  asked  his  business-partner,  Mr. 
Spencer  Delaplaine,  to  act  as  his  best  man.  Mr. 
Delaplaine  was  seven  or  eight  years  the  senior 
of  his  friend ;  he  had  then  reached  perhaps  his 
fortieth  year,  but  Thyrza  fancied  that  he  must  be 
older,  his  aquiline  face,  his  light,  gray,  shrewd  eyes 
and  his  spare,  tall,  neatly-garbed  figure  somehow 
combined  to  express  so  much  serene  worldly  experi- 
ence. He  observed  the  minister  perform  the  cere- 


14  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

mony  with  an  air  of  composure  that  narrowly  missed 
betraying  the  disgust  it  concealed.  This  union 
appeared  to  him  a  piece  of  the  purest  folly.  The 
banking-house  of  Delaplaine  and  Van  Rensselaer 
was  still  somewhat  new  in  Wall  Street.  There  was 
every  reason  to  fear  that  such  an  insane  step  might 
be  detrimental  as  regarded  its  future  prosperity.  Mr. 
Delaplaine  had  always  prided  himself  on  being  a  per- 
sonage of  the  highest  position  ;  a  short  time  ago  he 
had  taken  pleasure  in  the  reflection  that  even  his  mer- 
cantile life  was  to  be  elevated  by  association  with  one 
whose  descent  not  only  rivalled  but  surpassed  his  own. 
And  now  Houston  must  go  and  do  this  headlong,  sen- 
timental thing !  He,  who  could  have  walked  connu- 
bially up  the  aisle  of  Trinity  Church  or  Grace  Church 
with  Miss  Van  Peekskill,  the  heiress,  worth  three 
hundred  thousand,  if  a  dime,  in  her  own  unrestricted 
right ! 

Houston  Van  Rensselaer's  first  act,  after  marrying 
Rosalie  Jenks,  was  to  separate  her  inflexibly  from  her 
father  and  sister.  He  took  her  abroad  within  the  next 
fortnight,  and  remained  there  with  her  five  good  years. 
His  name  still  continued  over  the  doorway  of  the 
banking-house,  which  throve  capably  with  Delaplaine 
as  its  active  working  partner.  People  said  that  he 
would  never  bring  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  back  until  he 
had  educated  her  so  that  she  could  hold  her  own  as 
veritable  grande  dame  among  those  whom  his  matri- 
monial escapade  had  horrified.  Meanwhile  Abner 
Jenks,  the  carpenter,  died,  and  Thyrza,  his  other 
daughter,  married  a  worthless,  plausible  scamp  named 
Ottarson,  who  drank  himself  to  death  three  years 
later.  But  Mrs.  Ottarson,  full  of  pluck  and  energy, 


OLIVIA  LELAPLAINE.  15 

succeeded  in  making  herself  the  head  of  an  establish- 
ment for  boarders,  and  in  securing  thereby  an  easy,  if 
not  a  plethoric  annuity. 

When  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  returned  to  New  York 
with  her  husband,  she  bore  the  traces  of  a  most  telling 
change.  Her  girlish  loveliness  had  completely  van- 
ished; she  was  pale,  tired-looking,  timidly  reserved, 
and  no  more  like  her  former  merry,  spontaneous  self 
than  is  a  lily  with  its  cut  stalk  kept  in  a  vase  for  many 
hours  like  the  balmy-chaliced  bloom  that  drank  nur- 
ture from  its  vital  root.  She  had  wedded  into  a 
world  that  had  chilled  and  wilted  her.  Houston  Van 
Rensselaer  was  still,  in  his  stately,  high-bred  way,  a 
fond  husband.  But  he  had  made  her  breathe  the  air 
of  perpetual  disappointment,  and  she  showed  the 
result  with  a  pathetic  plainness  of  disclosure. 

Proudly  and  undemonstratively  her  husband  waited 
the  acknowledgment  of  his  return.  He  issued  no 
cards  of  invitation  to  the  house  in  South  Washington 
Square.  If  he  had  done  so  the  polite  summons  would 
no  doubt  have  been  heeded.  Curiosity  could  ill  have 
withstood  the  temptation  of  opportunity  when  it  be- 
came a  question  of  seeing  how  forceful  had  been  the 
alterative  of  those  five  educational  years.  But  Hous- 
ton Van  Rensselaer  merely  said  to  Delaplaine,  his 
friend  and  partner :  "  They  know  that  we  are  at  home. 
Let  them  come  if  they  choose.  Letitia  Auchincloss 
used  to  be  a  woman  fond  of  talking  about  her  duty. 
As  my  elder  sister,  she  might  rank  it  her  duty  to  call 
upon  my  wife." 

The  Auchinclosses  and  the  Satterthwaites  met  in 
august  council  to  consider  this  most  exacting  question. 
The  feminine  head  of  either  family  had  been  a  Van 


16  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Rensselaer;  they  were  Houston's  sisters,  and  each  had 
been  considered  in  the  days  of  her  virginity  to  have 
made  a  match  that  was  notably  brilliant.  Letitia 
Auchincloss  and  Augusta  Satterthwaite  were  women 
near  of  an  age,  and  both  were  among  the  few  undis- 
puted leaders  of  social  New  York.  The  result  of  the 
council  was  that  no  unsolicited  visit  should  be  paid 
upon  the  wife  of  their  brother.  The  l£se  majeste  of 
such  a  proceeding  was  not  to  be  lightly  esteemed. 

But  Thyrza  Ottarson  did  not  remain  away  from  her 
sister.  It  was  a  meeting  that  Mrs.  Ottarson  never 
forgot;  and  years  afterwards,  when  she  and  her  niece 
became  the  good  friends  that  we  have  already  seen 
them,  she  described  the  meeting  to  Olivia  in  her 
volatile  and  colloquially  homespun  manner: 

"  There  was  your  ma,  my  dear,  and  there  was  me. 
I  can  see  it  all  just  as  plain  this  minute  as  if  it  was  no 
more'n  yesterday.  Your  pa'd  met  me  in  the  hall,  and 
gone  into  the  libr'y  down  stairs.  '  She  expects  you,' 
says  your  pa.  'She'll  be  down  soon.'  An'  then  I 
guess  he  saw  I  felt  queer,  so  he  said  something  'bout 
seein'  to  the  furnace,  as  it  was  growin'  chilly,  or  some 
such  kind  o'  humbugging  thing  as  that,  to  get  himself 
out  of  the  room,  and  went.  An'  then  I  heard  a  step 
near  the  other  door,  and  the  door  opened,  and  there 
was  your  ma.  Well,  as  I  told  you,  'Livia,  I  stood  an' 
she  stood.  It  seemed's  if  the  sight  of  her  jus'  scooped 
all  the  breath  right  out  o'  my  chest.  She  was  so 
altered  that  I  felt  like  screech  in' to  her:  'You  ain't 
my  Rose ;  you  can't  be,  and  you  ain't ! '  But  I  knew 
all  the  while  that  she  was,  and  this  made  it  harder  to 
bear.  They'd  turned  her  into  a  high-toned,  first-class 
lady ;  no  mistake  about  that,  'Livia.  But  it  had  just 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  17 

pulled  all  the  shine  out  of  her  eyes  and  all  the  pink 
out  of  her  cheeks." 

Houston  Van  Rensselaer  took  his  wife  to  Europe 
again.  Only  one  person  knew  in  how  haughty  and 
disdainful  a  state  of  temper  he  had  recrossed  the 
ocean,  and  that  person  was  his  partner,  Spencer  Dela- 
plaine.  He  had  found  out  that  the  banking-house  was 
in  a  finely  flourishing  condition  ;  there  were  unantici- 
pated thousands  placed  to  his  credit.  "I  mean  to 
show  some  of  these  American  snobs  here,"  he  said  to 
his  single  confidant,  "  how  Parisian  society  will  receive 
my  wife." 

"But,  Houston,"  urged  his  partner,  "you  should 
remember  that  you  didn't  make  the  least  formal  an- 
nouncement of  your  return." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  affair,"  replied 
Van  Rensselaer  unpropitiatedly.  "  At  least  it  has  not 
so  far  as  my  blood  relations  are  concerned." 

"But  your  blood  relations  —  "  began  Spencer  Dela- 
plaine. 

"I  understand,"  shot  in  the  other,  cutting  him 
short,  "  New  York  isn't  quite  the  universe  yet,  Spen- 
cer. The  next  time  that  I  bring  my  wife  back  to  her 
native  country,  I'll  warrant  you  that  the  de  haut  en 
bas  attitude  will  be  hers  to  assume." 

But  Rosalie  Van  Rensselaer  soon  had  crossed  the 
Atlantic  for  the  third  and  last  time  in  her  young  and 
by  no  means  cloudless  life.  Five  more  years  were 
still  allotted  her,  and  these  she  passed  amid  fashion 
and  luxury  in  Paris  and  various  watering-places  of 
Europe.  She  and  her  husband  became  much  discussed 
both  by  foreigners  and  resident  Americans.  It  un- 
doubtedly reached  the  ears  of  the  Auchinclosses  and 


18  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

the  Satterthwaites  that  she  had  become  a  decided 
somebody  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean.  They  heard 
of  the  balls  and  fetes  which  she  gave  and  attended;  of 
the  royal  patronage  which  lifted  her  several  prominent 
inches  above  her  most  aspiring  countrywomen  ;  of  the 
elegance  and  originality  that  marked  her  costumes ;  of 
this  or  that  princely  Highness  who  had  graced  her 
costly  entertainments ;  and  at  last,  suddenly,  they 
heard  of  her  death. 

She  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  daughter,  the  only 
child  she  had  borne  during  the  ten  years  that  had 
succeeded  her  marriage.  Whatever  grief  Houston 
Van  Rensselaer  may  have  felt,  he  shrouded  from 
publicity  by  the  most  guarded  seclusion.  When  he 
once  more  took  steamer  for  America  little  Olivia  was 
five  years  old.  His  relations  flocked  to  meet  him, 
then,  with  their  sympathetic  welcomings.  He  re- 
ceived them  courteously  but  frigidly.  But  there  was, 
nevertheless,  a  distinct  reconciliation.  Till  Olivia  had 
reached  her  eighteenth  year  he  had  kept  up  a  series  of 
occasional  visits  to  New  York,  making  Paris  his  real 
place  of  abode.  It  was  affirmed  that  these  trips  were 
taken  purely  for  financial  reasons;  and  then  again 
such  reports  were  stoutly  contradicted.  What  did 
Spencer  Delaplaine  want  him  for?  He  had  long  ago 
become  a  mere  silent  partner  in  the  banking-house. 
He  still  lived  handsomely  abroad,  it  was  true ;  but  the 
business  had  gone  on  prospering  under  Delaplaine's 
keen  and  able  superintendence. 

The  last  time  that  Van  Rensselaer  came  home  he 
came  a  sick  and  death-threatened  man.  It  was  then 
that  Olivia's  aunt,  Mrs.  Ottarson,  revealed  how  much 
depth  of  humane  goodness  may  co-exist  with  the 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  19 

most  disorderly  syntax.  Olivia  had  till  now  shrunk 
from  her  as  from  a  personality  offensively  unpolished, 
and  there  was  no  dilettante  daintiness,  either,  in 
Olivia's  composition.  Perhaps  if  there  had  been  she 
would  not,  even  now,  have  so  indulgently  overlooked 
all  her  aunt's  glaring  solecisms.  As  it  was,  to  remem- 
ber the  dogged  fortitude  of  Mrs.  Ottarson's  late  minis- 

O™ 

trations  at  her  father's  bedside  was  to  love  her  in 
spite  of  every  barrier  that  breeding  could  interpose. 
Nature  seemed  to  have  dowered  her  with  the  sleepless 
eye,  the  unechoing  step,  the  feathery  touch  and  the 
clairvoyant  perception  of  the  instinctive  nurse.  Van 
Rensselaer  had  been  subject  to  periods  of  intense 
pain ;  and  as  if  by  a  satirical  punishment  wreaked 
upon  his  former  pride,  the  woman  whom  he  had  pro- 
fessed himself  while  in  health  as  hardly  capable  of 
enduring,  now  became  the  chief  agent  of  alleviation 
for  his  physical  torments.  The  dying  man  could  not 
understand  the  wherefore  of  it  all  himself ;  but  so  it 
was ;  that  very  random  bluntness  of  speech  which  had 
formerly  set  his  teeth  on  edge  in  Thyrza  Ottarson, 
touched  his  tingling  nerves  now  with  a  cheery  sincer- 
ity of  intonation.  When  a  sick-room  has  grown  the 
ante-chamber  of  a  certain  dark  king,  it  is  wonderful 
how  class-distinctions  tend  to  shrivel  away  in  its 
atmosphere;  for  the  grim  royalty  that  waits  a  new 
courtier  somewhere  off  in  the  shadow  beyond,  appears 
to  be  throwing  a  continuous  intangible  sarcasm  upon 
all  grades  of  earthly  rank.  Through  those  weary 
weeks  of  self-forgetful  surveillance  the  boarding  estab- 
lishment naturally  missed  its  proprietress.  Neglect 
took  the  place  of  attention,  and  several  vacant  rooms 
were  the  result.  But  on  Olivia's  remonstrance,  Mrs. 


20  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Ottarson  simply  put  an  arm  round  her  niece's  neck, 
and  sai<  1 : 

"Now,  'Livia,  you  jus'  be  still.  I  mean  to  stick 
right  here,  if  every  soul  in  the  house  leaves  it. 
There's  others  in  plenty,  the  minute  I  choose  to 
advertise  for  'em.  La,  sakes,  yes!  Besides,  dear,  it 
can't  be  very  long,  now,  before  we  see  some  change  in 
your  poor  pa,  one  way  or  another." 

And  it  was  not  long.  During  their  kinsman's  ill- 
ness the  Auchinclosses,  the  Satterthwaites,  and  people 
whose  relationship  was  much  more  distant  than  theirs, 
behaved  duteously  enough.  And  when  all  was  over, 
and  Brown,  the  corpulent  sexton  of  Grace  Church, 
came  to  conduct  the  funeral,  which  took  place  in  the 
old  Washington  Square  mansion,  it  was  admirable  to 
see  what  a  throng  pressed  through  the  antique  front 
doorway  on  that  inclement  May  morning.  There 
were  the  De  Lancey  Van  Rensselaers,  whom  one 
knew  on  the  instant  by  their  red  hair  and  freckles; 
and  the  Suydam  Van  Rensselaers,  who  all  had  arched 
noses  which  they  held  as  though  a  breath  from  their 
family  vault  up  at  Spuytenduyvil  had  passed  alarm- 
ingly near  their  nostrils;  and  the  Brinkerhoff  Van 
Rensselaers,  who  really  were  heads  of  their  line  but 
bore  themselves  with  such  jovial  simplicity  that  they 
might  have  been  Smiths  from  nowhere.  All  these, 
and  many  more,  came  to  the  funeral,  but  Olivia  had 
been  quite  right  in  calling  it  cold.  No  one  had 
seemed  really  to  care.  And  why  should  any  one 
have  cared,  for  that  matter?  Even  her  father's  late 
partner,  Spencer  Delaplaine,  had  only  seen  the  dead 
man  at  intervals  during  a  space  of  nearly  thirty  years. 
He  had  been  markedly  attentive  all  through  the  ill- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  21 

ness ;  he  had  called  again  and  again  personally  to 
inquire  concerning  the  state  of  the  invalid  ;  he  had 
both  sent  and  brought  Olivia  envelopes  full  of  bank- 
notes, which  she  had  accepted  as  her  fathei-'s  and  her 
own  rightful  due,  without  a  hint  of  more  than  digni- 
fied' civility  as  she  did  so.  He  had  struck  the  girl  as 
an  elderly  gentleman  (for  his  age  must  have  been 
undoubtedly  sixty)  with  just  the  loveless  demeanor 
and  the  dry,  semi-ironical  repose  that  you  might  have 
expected  from  one  who  had  passed  so  long  a  term  of 
preferred  bachelorhood.  It  had  evidently  been  pre- 
ferred, Olivia  told  herself  more  than  once  during  their 
conversations  together.  He  was  a  gentleman ;  you 
could  see  that  by  a  glance;  and  then,  of  course,  he 
had  had,  and  he  still  had,  a  good  deal  of  money,  just 
as  her  papa  had  had,  and  still  had.  There  was  a 
smouldering  memento  of  the  beau  in  him,  too;  he 
must  have  been  gallant  and  winsome  before  he  grew 
so  lean  and  gaunt,  with  those  yellow,  hard  ridges,  like 
folds  of  parchment,  just  where  the  collar  met  his 
throat,  and  that  little  limp  of  one  spare  leg,  which  he 
said  was  his  old  foe,  the  gout.  He  had  sent  a  superb 
souvenir  in  the  way  of  flowers  that  morning  —  lilies 
and  violets  blended.  Others  had  sent  like  tributes, 
but  none  was  half  as  beautiful  as  Mr.  Delaplaine's. 
Olivia  mentioned  this  gift  as  she  now  sat  with  her 
aunt  in  the  still  house  and  "talked  it  all  over."  The 
weeks  of  certainty  that  her  father's  agony  must  end 
in  death  had  left  her  not  only  pardonably  but  most 
explainably  resigned ;  loss  had  come  with  an  infinite 
relief,  and  youth  was  already  speeding,  for  this  reason, 
the  merciful  consolatory  work  which  sooner  or  later 
reaches  all  such  pain. 


22  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"I  whispered  a  few  words  of  thanks  to  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine  this  morning,  Aunt  Thyrza,"  she  said,  "for 
those  lovely  flowers.  It  seemed  almost  rude  of  me 
not  to  do  so.  But  I  somehow  fancied  he  looked 
shocked  that  I  should  remember  even  to  thank  him  at 
such  a  time." 

"I  guess  he  thought  it  was  awful,"  replied  Mrs. 
Ottarson.  "I  guess,  'Li via,  that's  he's  a  man  who's 
always  drilled  himself  by  rule  in  ev'rything,  whether 
it's  been  grief  or  business,  and  's  got  his  real  feelings 
just  about  down  to  an  oyster's.  .  .  .  My !  to  think 
how  he's  changed  since  your  poor  dear  ma  was  mar- 
ried !  I  can  see  him  then,  just  as  distinct!  He  was 
pale  and  thin,  even  then  —  not  my  style  o'  man  a  bit; 
I  always  fancied  a  man  with  some  flesh  about  him, 
and  a  look  as  if  he  eat  his  three  square  meals  a  day  — 
you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  murmured  Olivia.  She  had  long  since 
grown  to  translate  Mrs.  Ottarson's  coarseness,  fondly 
and  forgivingly,  into  a  more  cultured  idiom.  The 
mental  process  was  not  difficult  now;  affection  had 
indeed  made  it  singularly  facile. 

"  But,  my!  "  continued  her  aunt,  "  he's  so  dried  up, 
ain't  he  ?  He  was  'ristocratic  then,  an'  I  guess  a  good 
many  girls  in  the  upper  class  where  he's  always 
moved  must  have  took  to  him  if  he'd  only  wanted 
them  to." 

"  I  suppose  he  never  did  want  them  to,"  smiled 
Olivia,  "and  now  he's  lost  every  chance." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so !  Still,  with  his  money  I 
reckon  there's  some  that  just  would.  You  can't  tell. 
It's  such  a  world  !  'Livia,  when  I  think  that  there's 
people  in  it  as  different  as  me  and  your  aunt  Letitia 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  23 

Auchincloss,  f  r  instance,  I  can  scarcely  b'lieve  what  I 


see 


i  " 


"You  don't  like  Aunt  Letitia,"  said  Olivia,  shaking 
her  head,  dreamily,  with  another  smile.  "Well,  nei- 
ther do  I." 

"  She  was  mad  to-day,"  went  on  Mrs.  Ottarson,  with 
a  kind  of  sudden  guttural  tone  and  a  significant  tight- 
ening of  the  lips.  "  Oh,  I  could  see  she  was,  and  so 
was  her  sister  —  your  aunt  Augusta  Satterthwaite. 
They  expected  to  go  in  the  same  carriage  with  you. 
An'  they  would  'a  gone  if  they  hadn't  seen  you  and  I 
stick  so  close  together.  They  took  the  next  carriage 
the  minute  they  saw  I  wasn't  goin'  to  leave  you.  Oh, 
that  was  it!  They  looked  at  you,  but  you  didn't  see 
'em ;  you  was  cry  in'  under  your  veil,  poor  deary.  But 
I  saw  'em.  An'  I  jus'  give  your  aunt  Letitia  one 
look.  She  turned  away,  and  nudged  her  sister  after  I 
gave  it."  Here  Mrs.  Ottarson  laughed  with  the  glee 
of  scorn,  but  it  was  not  a  laugh  that  jarred  upon 
Olivia  in  the  least;  she  knew  too  well  the  infinite 
good  in  the  heart  it  welled  from.  "  Wy,  Livvy,  they 
think  me,  those  two  aunts  o'  yours,  reg'lar  scum  o'  the 
earth  —  yes,  they  do  !  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  hope  not ;  I  am  sure  not !  "  said  Olivia, 
reaching  out  a  hand  and  clasping  with  it  one  of  the 
speaker's.  She  would  doubtless  have  said  more,  but 
just  then  a  ring  at  the  lower  hall-door  made  herself 
and  her  companion  start  a  little. 

"  That's  them,  now,  I  guess,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son, as  she  rose.  "  Or,  no ;  p'haps  it's  7«ra." 

"  They  ?  He  ?  "  asked  Olivia,  also  rising.  «  Whom 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Your  aunts,  or  else  Mr.  Delaplaine.     They've  got 


24  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

to  come  back  before  long,  you  know ;  it  wouldn't  be 
decent  if  they  didn't  ?  " 

"It  wouldn't  be  conventional,"  said  Olivia;  "I'm 
afraid  a  good  deal  of  decency  means  just  that,  with 
certain  people." 

Mrs.  Ottarson  went  out  into  the  hall  and  leaned 
over  the  banisters  cautiously.  "It's  your  two  aunts, 
dear,"  she  at  length  informed  her  niece. 

"I  will  see  them  up  here,"  said  Olivia.  "Tell 
Susan  to  show  them  up,  please." 

The  big  drawing-room  in  which  Olivia  stood  as  she 
thus  spoke  was  full  of  antiquated  and  cumbrous 
effects.  The  heavy  mahogany  doors  beamed  like 
glass;  the  marble-topped  "centre-table,"  as  it  used  to 
be  called,  had  the  nether  parts  of  dolphins  for  its 
ornate  legs,  and  bore  upon  its  veiny  slab  a  porphyry 
card-receiver,  and  a  large  tarnished  copy  of  Lord 
Byron's  poems.  On  the  massively  carved  mantel  rose 
a  basket  of  clammy-looking  wax-flowers,  with  a  glass 
case  over  them,  reconciled,  as  it  might  be  said,  to  its 
pedestal,  by  an  ellipse  of  dense  scarlet  chenille.  Still 
farther  above  the  fire-place  hung  one  of  those  portraits 
in  oil  which  must  always  painfully  remind  the  impres- 
sionable American  of  his  immature  country.  The 
ceiling  was  florid  with  execrable  frescoes,  and  both 
groined  and  corniced  with  ponderous  gilded  plaster- 
work.  Here  and  there  you  saw  a  rug,  a  stool,  a  fall 
of  decorative  stuff,  that  betrayed  the  more  modern 
spirit  of  appointment.  But  as  a  rule  the  visits  of  the 
Van  Rensselaers  to  South  Washington  Square  had 
been  temporary  sojourns,  with  all  their  family  splen- 
dor, as  it  were,  left  abroad  to  speedily  lure  them  back 
again.  It  would  be  hard  to  tell  how  many  times 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  25 

Houston  Van  Rensselaer  had  looked  at  the  portrait 
over  the  fire-place  and  the  case  of  wax-flowers  just 
below  it,  and  uttered  "damnable!"  But  he  somehow 
never  actually  had  time  to  remove  either.  As  it 
seemed  to  him,  he  was  always  either  coming  home  to 
this  country  or  going  away  from  it.  And  then, 
finally,  he  had  come  home  to  die.  It  is  so  often  just 
like  that  with  the  most  diligent  or  dilatory  of  mortals. 
If  the  lists  of  the  deeds,  good  or  bad,  that  we  have 
been  intending  to  accomplish,  could  be  put  into  our 
coffins  after  death,  they  might  often  make  a  scroll  of 
somewhat  uncouth  bulk  for  the  calculations  of  the 
undertaker. 

"  I'll  run  upstairs  after  I've  told  Susan  that  you'll 
see  'em  here,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson. 

"  No,  no,"  swiftly  objected  Olivia,  "  I  want  you  to 
stay  with  me,  Aunt  Thyrza." 

"Stay  with  you,  'Livia!  Mercy  me!  and  be 
snubbed  by  'em  to  their  hearts'  content?  I  guess 
not ! " 

Mrs.  Ottarson  was  hurrying  off.  Olivia  darted 
after.  "  Aunt  Thyrza ! "  she  exclaimed.  The  lady, 
hearing  her  reproachful  voice,  instantly  turned  and 
faced  her.  "How  could  you  think  I  would  let  them 
do  anything  of  that  sort?"  Olivia  pursued,  with  an 
indignant  little  flash.  "  Stay !  please  stay !  "  she  went 
on,  with  her  tones  promptly  altered  to  pleading.  "  I 
—  I  shall  feel  so  lonely  with  them  just  at  this  time, 
unless  you  are  near !  "  She  suddenly  flung  both  arms 
about  Mrs.  Ottarson's  neck,  and  let  her  soft  young  lips 
rest  for  a  moment  on  her  companion's  cheek.  "  You've 
been  so  good  !  Please  don't  leave  me  now ! " 

"  Very  well,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Ottarson.     She  gave 


26  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

a  laugh  with  an  unwonteclly  hoarse  note  in  it,  as  she 
returned  her  niece's  kiss.  "I'll  stay,  then,  Liv,  no 
matter  what  they  do  to  me."  She  drew  back  and 
tossed  her  head  defiantly;  as  she  did  so  a  faintly 
tearful  light  gleamed  from  her  black  eyes.  "  I'd  put 
myself  out  a  lot  more'n  that  to  do  you  a  good  turn ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "But  you  must  let  me  fight  'em  if 
they  try  any  o'  their  impudent  nonsense  over  me!" 

Olivia's  acceding  nod  followed  so  rapidly  that  her 
aunt  had  only  to  turn  again,  partially  descend  the 
staircase,  and  meet  Susan,  the  maid-servant,  midway 
in  her  ascent. 

"  They  have  come  to  gener  me  with  their  tire- 
some condolences,"  thought  Olivia,  standing,  a  sweet, 
mournful-robed  figure,  at  the  threshold  of  the  old- 
fashioned  drawing-room.  "They  have  come  to  vex 
me  with  their  expressions  of  stupid,  insincere  sym- 
pathy. How  I  wish  it  was  all  over  and  done  with!" 

But  Olivia  was  mistaken.  Her  aunts  had  come  to 
acquit  themselves  in  quite  a  different  way. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  27 


II. 

OLIVIA  shook  hands  composedly  with  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  as  these  two  ladies  pres- 
ently entered  the  drawing-room  where  she  awaited 
them.  Mrs.  Ottarson  stood  a  good  deal  in  the  back- 
ground. But  Olivia  very  soon  veered  about  in  the 
direction  of  the  latter,  and  said  with  a  self-possession 
assuredly  rare  in  a  girl  of  her  years  and  her  foreign 
rearing  : 

"Let  me  present  you  to  my  aunt  Thyrza,  Mrs. 
Auchincloss,  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  —  my  other  aunt, 
you  know ;  my  mother's  sister." 

There  was  a  brief  but  dead  silence  as  Mrs.  Ottarson 
came  forward.  Bows  were  exchanged,  all  three  of 
them  as  repressed  and  lifeless  as  salutations  of  this 
purely  ceremonial  sort  could  be  made.  And  then  the 
four  sank  into  chairs,  Mrs.  Ottarson  still  keeping  a 
little  in  the  background. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  broke  the  pause  that  ensued. 
She  was  a  person  qualified  to  break  pauses ;  she  had 
the  art  of  saying  nothing  when  nothing  was  expected 
to  be  said,  and  of  delivering  it  with  just  the  requisite 
air  of  responsibility. 

"This  drawing-room  has  so  familiar  a  look;  has  it 
not,  Letitia  ?  " 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  lifted  a  pair  of  tortoise-shell  eye- 
glasses by  means  of  their  long  rectangular  handle, 
and  held  them  to  her  eyes  while  she  gazed  all 

27 


28  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

about  her  with  a  kind  of  majestic  finicality.  She 
had  managed  to  avoid  letting  her  cool  gray  eye, 
however,  light  even  for  a  second  upon  Mrs.  Ottnr- 
son ;  and  her  sister  had  indeed  done  the  same. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Augusta,  very  familiar.  We  used  to 
play  here  as  children,  you  remember  .  .  .  here  in 
this  very  room." 

"I  was  married  in  this  room,"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  to  Olivia.  "  And  your  poor  papa,  my  dear, 
was  one  of  my  groomsmen." 

"I  knew  it  was  a  very  old  house,"  murmured 
Olivia,  "  but  — "  And  then  she  stopped  short, 
coloring,  very  regretful  of  the  inopportune  speech. 
But  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and  her  sister  were  women 
of  the  world  trained  to  their  finger-tips.  They 
swiftly  saw  that  Olivia  had  lapsed  into  one  of 
those  infelicitous  phrases  for  which  her  youth  must 
supply  the  ready  excuse. 

"Ah,  sister!"  softly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Auchincloss, 
with  just  the  dim  smile  of  partial  amusement  that 
seemed  to  suit  the  sober  occasion,  "Olivia  is  per- 
fectly right.  The  house  is  very  old,  and  we  are 
growing  shockingly  old  as  well." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  nodded.  She  was  never  quite 
as  exquisitely  receptive  as  her  sister  to  all  the  nicest 
requisitions  of  deportment ;  she  had  even  said  and 
done  rude  things,  it  was  avowed  of  her  by  her  ene- 
mies, for  so  great  a  lady.  Still,  she  answered  with 
just  a  shade  less  of  amiability  than  she  might  have 
shown,  and  with  a  touch  of  that  rather  cynical  humor 
for  which  she  and  the  especial  set  in  which  she  chose 
to  move  were  occasionally  quoted  : 

"  Dear  Letitia,  I  think  we've  an  advantage  over  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  29 

house  we  were  almost  born  in  ;  we're  not  quite  so 
much  out  of  repair,  don't  you  know?" 

This  little  glint  of  wit  struck  Mrs.  Auchincloss  as 
ill-timed ;  she  did  not  even  pay  it  the  notice  of  a 
smile."  But  Olivia  did,  and  quickly  afterwards  she 
said,  glad  to  find  a  new  theme  of  talk : 

"  The  house  is  out  of  repair.  If  poor  papa  had 
lived  a  little  longer  he  would  have  done  a  great  deal 
for  it,  I  am  sure.  That  is,  unless  he  had  concluded  to 
move  farther  up-town.  For  we  meant  to  stay  in  New 
York  this  time." 

"I  think  he  would  have  concluded  to  move,"  said 
Mrs.  Auchincloss,  in  her  modulated,  flute-like  tones. 
"  South  Washington  Square  is  no  longer  what  it  was." 

"  It  is  getting  to  be  really  dreadful,  you  know,  my 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Sattei'thwaite. 

"Dreadful?"  faltered  Olivia,  with  an  involuntary 
look  at  Mrs.  Ottarson. 

"It  isn't  as  uppish  as  it  was,"  declared  Mrs. 
Ottarson,  chiefly  addressing  her  niece.  She  had  no 
intention  of  remaining  silent ;  /silence,  under  any 
circumstances,  had  never  stood  high  among  either 
her  virtues  or  her  graces.  >> "  At  least,  that's  what 
they  tell  me.  You  see,  'Livia,  Thompson  Street's 
close  by,  an'  it's  pretty  much  filled  with  colored 
folks;  and  then  there's  some  other  queer  neighbor- 
hoods nearer  still,  and  I  guess  some  of  'em  are  really 
awful,  'specially  after  dark.  And  I  see  there's  one  or 
two  lager-beer  saloons  an'  billiard-halls  crep'  in  on 
this  very  block.  It's  a  shame,  but  it's  so.  The 
city  will  push  up-town,  what's  best  of  it.  Wy,  my! 
it's  funny  to  see  how  the  respectable  class  do  go  gal- 
lopin'  away  from  the  lower  end." 


30  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

She  finished  this  little  series  of  remarks  with  a  com- 
plete understanding  that  both  of  Olivia's  guests  would 
receive  it  chillingly.  She  was  prepared  for  their 
drooped  eyelids  and  the  furtive  glance  that  passed 
between  them.  They  thought  her  beneath  them ; 
of  course  they  did.  She  didn't  care  for  that,  though. 
She  wasn't  going  to  be  "put  down."  She  hadn't 
wanted  to  stay  in  the  room ;  she  had  done  so  only 
on  "'Livia's"  account.  But  now  that  she  had  staid, 
she  wouldn't  sit  with  her  tongue  between  her  teeth, 
like  a  fool.  She  had  never  done  it  since  she  was 
born,  and  she  guessed  it  was  pretty  late  in  the  day 
for  a  woman  of  her  age  to  begin. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Olivia,  shaking  her  head  regret- 
fully, "  I  suppose  that  is  the  way  with  all  large  cities, 
Aunt  Thyrza ;  they  outgrow  themselves  and  leave  a 
kind  of  living  past  behind  them.  It  is  so  with 
Paris,  I'm  sure.  Still,  what  I  hear  about  this  being 
an  undesirable  quarter  surprises  me."  (Here  she 
looked  at  her  two  other  kinswomen.)  "I've  been 
out  so  little  since  poor  papa  was  first  taken  ill  — 
and  that,  you  know,  was  very  soon  after  we  got 
home." 

"  But  you  can't  be  attached  to  the  house,  can  you, 
my  dear  Olivia?"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  in  her 
suave,  cooing  tones. 

"You  have  really  lived  here  so  little,"  supple* 
mented  Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

"But  it  —  it  somehow  means  New  York  to  me," 
stammered  Olivia.  "When  here  I  have  not  once 
lived  anywhere  else." 

"Oh,  never  you  mind,  'Livia,"  now  broke  in  Mrs. 
Ottarson.  "A  person  that's  got  your  means  can  find 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  31 

other  houses  just  as  comftable  and  a  good  sight  styl- 
isher.  I  presume,  ladies,  you  'gree  with  me?" 

The  last  sentence  was  lightly  thrown,  as  it  were,  at 
Mrs.  Auchineloss  and  her  sister.  It  cannot  be  said  to 
have  taken  them  by  surprise ;  very  little  had  ever  done 
that.  But  it  made  them  both  decide  rather  rapidly 
to  show  its  deliverer  a  freezing  disregard.  $  In  all 
the  aristocratic  circles  of  Christendom  there  are 
women  whom  you  could  not  more  keenly  insult 
than  by  telling  them  they  were  not  ladies,  and  yet 
who  unhesitatingly  violate,  in  just  this  bloodless  fash- 
ion, the  sweet  and  sane  laws  on  which  they  would  base 
half  their  own  title  to  superior  respect.  .,$ 

But  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Auchineloss  and  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite  the  provocation  to  be  crushingly  uncivil 
was  not  solely  engendered  by  contact  with  a  fellow- 
creature  held  less  cultured  than  themselves.  I  do 
not  deny  their  capability  of  dealing  discountenance 
for  that  and  no  more  cogent  reason.  Still,  they  had 
another  greivance,  just  now,  and  one  which  had  long 
before  loomed  to  them  grimly  formidable. 

Their  brother's  marriage  had  always  affected  them 
as  a  most  execrable  and  even  disgraceful  proceeding. 
They  had  been  young  wives  when  he  had  contracted 
it ;  they  had  thought  it  a  shame  then  and  they  had 
continued  to  think  it  so  ever  since.  Of  course  the 
position  Olivia's  mother  had  secured  abroad  was  pal- 
liating to  their  distress;  but  the  connection  remained. 
They  could  not  exactly  have  defined  to  you  just  what 
they  meant  by  the  "connection,"  now  that  Abner 
Jenks  was  dead  and  the  Macdougal  Street  carpen- 
ter-shop had  vanished  agreeably  from  its  previous 
detested  site.  They  must  have  explained  their  pal- 


32  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

pable  antipathy  to  the  surviving  ignominy  of  the 
whole  affair  by  reference  to  Mrs.  Ottarson.  There 
were  no  other  Jenks  relatives  whom  they  knew  of. 
But  they  knew  of  her ;  they  had  forever  kept  her  in 
mind  as  a  potential  bugbear.  She  was  a  trial,  so  to 
speak,  that  might  befall  them  any  day  in  the  week, 
any  week  in  the  month.  They  both  stood  before  the 
eyes  of  "  society "  in  the  colors  of  a  magnificent 
assumption.  Naturally  the  misstep  of  their  brother 
was  no  social  secret.  But  his  madness  had  now  be- 
come a  matter  of  the  past ;  his  ill-born  spouse  was 
dead  ;  time  had  in  a  sense  dimmed  that  blot  on  the 
Van  Rensselaer  'scutcheon.  Meanwhile  they  rose  tout 
en  deliors  to  the  world  in  which  they  shone  as  rulers. 
Every  concomitant  of  their  mundane  lives  had  for 
years  helped  to  swell  the  prestige  of  their  splendid 
exclusiveness.  Their  husbands,  their  children,  their 
households,  their  servants,  their  entertainments,  their 
equipages,  their  gowns,  their  very  bonnets  and  boots, 
had  all  contributed  honorably,  effectively,  enviably  and 
modishly  to  the  brilliancy  of  their  urban  elan.  And 
yet  that  woman,  who  could  declare  herself  a  kind  of 
sister-in-law,  was  keeping  a  boarding-house  in  the 
same  town  with  themselves.  They  could  not  forget 
her;  she  haunted  them.  Once  she  had  got  into  the 
papers  through  a  lawsuit  between  herself  and  an 
abusive,  insolent  lodger.  They  had  read  the  accounts 
of  her  prosecution  with  guilty  dread  ;  she  was  the  rose- 
leaf  under  their  mattresses,  and  when  one  sleeps  on 
down,  one  probably  pays  the  penalty  of  such  nice 
accommodation  to  a  degree  undreamed  of  by  those 
who  stretch  contented  limbs  on  life's  commoner 
pallets  of  repose.  We  read  of  princesses  and  duch- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  33 

esses  who  pass  their  time  in  perfumed  ease,  without 
pausing  to  think  now  and  then  that  our  own  so-named 
republican  land  can  parallel  these  useless  feminine 
types.  Still  there  was  a  disparity  between  the  sis- 
ters in  their  separate  modes  of  asserting  and  preserv- 
ing pre-eminence,  and  one  worthy  of  the  chronicler's 
record. 

Mrs.  Archibald  Auchincloss  had  never  prided  her- 
self on  being  a  beauty.  But  now,  when  past  middle 
life,  she  was  tall,  blonde,  symmetrical,  and  of  that  vis- 
age and  complexion  to  which  the  fading  wear  of  time 
brings  a  false  attractiveness.  Those  who  had  never 
met  her  when  she  was  a  plain  young  woman  now  took 
it  for  granted  that  she  was  a  prettily  dilapidated 
elderly  one ;  for  age  became  her,  and  its  stealthy 
ravages  left  only  what  seemed  the  memento  of  a  face 
that  might  easily  have  once  been  beautiful.  It  must 
be  allowed  that  she  grew  old  with  an  extreme  grace- 
fulness. She  had  married  unexceptionably  well  even 
for  a  Van  Rensselaer.  Her  husband  was  a  lawyer  of 
such  prominence  that  his  intimacy  with  a  certain 
President  now  out  of  office  had  made  his  appoint- 
ment to  the  Secretaryship  of  State  seem  at  one  time 
highly  probable.  As  it  was,  he  remained  a  personage 
of  much  distinction.  He  had  never  even  joined  any 
New  York  club  but  the  Centennial,  a  club  that 
assumed  to  be  literary,  artistic  and  intellectual,  and 
to  treat  with  great  scorn  the  Metropolitan,  the  Gram- 
ercy  and  all  other  contemporaneous  bodies  of  a  like 
character.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  had  borne  her  husband 
two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter,  both  still  unmar- 
ried. She  always  declared  that  she  was  not  by  any 
means  a  fashionable  woman ;  her  church  and  her 


34  OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE. 

church  duties  trenched  too  greatly  on  her  time  for 
gay  dissipations.  And  yet  she  kept  upon  her  visiting- 
book  an  eye  of  the  closest  attention.  Her  rigid  con- 
servatisms would  have  no  concern  with  "  new  people." 
It  was  for  this  reason  that  she  had  pleaded  the 
demands  of  her  religion  when  asked  to  permit  her 
name  to  be  placed  among  those  of  the  lady  patron- 
esses of  the  Assembly  balls.  She  could  not  endure 
the  idea  of  associating  herself  with  the  nobodies  of 
yesterday  turned  the  nabobs  of  to-day.  She  went  to 
the  Patriarchs  and  the  Assemblies  and  the  Cotillions, 
with  her  svelte  figure  magnificently  apparelled,  and 
her  big,  renowned  pearls  casting  the  lustre  of  delicate 
illusion  over  a  neck  no  worse  for  such  adornment. 
She  took  her  daughter,  Madeleine,  to  these  and  other 
festivities,  but  it  was  somehow  an  accepted  fact  that 
this  young  lady  could  not  be  made  acquainted  with 
everybody.  Of  course  no  presentations  were  de- 
clined ;  that  would  have  been  a  piece  of  lamentable 
manners ;  but  there  are  variations  of  welcome,  all  the 
way  from  one  d,  bras  ouverts  to  one  of  the  lifted  eye- 
brows and  the  pursed  lips.  In  brief,  Mrs.  Auchincloss 
was  that  rarity  of  rarities,  a  leader  who  maintained 
supreme  ascendency  by  refusing  to  lead. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  lived  in  much  greater  splendor, 
occupied  a  larger  house,  and  having  considerably  more 
wealth  to  spend,  spent  it  with  unrestricted  extrava- 
gance. Her  husband,  Bleecker  Satterthwaite,  was 
one  of  the  few  thoroughly  indolent  men  of  fashion 
whom  the  possession  of  from  four  to  five  millions 
cannot  succeed  in  making  either  a  drunkard  or  a 
gamester.  Satterthwaite  thought  his  brother-in-law, 
Auchincloss,  an  unspeakable  bore  and  prig.  He  did 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  35 

not  belong  to  the  Centennial  Club  —  not  he;  it  was 
quite  too  full  of  those  seedy  fellows  like  artists  and 
authors  to  please  his  taste.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
Metropolitan  and  Gramercy  (and  devilish  respectable 
clubs  he  thought  them,  too!  )  besides  the  Jockey  Club 
and  Coaching  Club,  in  whose  annual,  slavishly  Anglo- 
maniacal  parade  he  drove  regularly  each  May.  The 
Satterthwaite  progeny  numbered  five,  three  daughters 
and  two  sons.  Their  great  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
had  been  the  scene  of  successive  lavish  and  sumpt- 
uous entertainments  ever  since  the  eldest  girl,  Emme- 
line,  had  come  out  in  society,  and  that  was  four 
years  ago.  Each  year  they  had  given  one  ball,  with 
dinners  and  dances  weeks  before  and  after.  It  would 
be  impossible  for  any  family  to  live  in  a  greater  whirl 
of  fashion.  Even  their  youngest  child,  little  Lulu, 
aged  ten,  belonged  to  a  dancing-class  from  which  she 
would  return  as  late  as  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 

O' 

laden  with  flowers  and  favors  from  her  juvenile  Ger- 
mans. Mrs.  Satterthwaite  was  a  leader  who  led  in 
good  earnest.  She  had  no  "church  duties,"  like  her 
sister.  She  would  have  been  horrified  if  you  had 
called  her  irreligious  ;  she  thought  it  abominable  form 
not  to  go  to  church  as  often  as  one  could.  As  for 
"  new  people,"  she  accepted  them  unhesitatingly 
whenever  they  were  really  lances  and  went  about  to 
places.  If  they  were  not,  and  did  not  go,  and  wanted 
her  to  help  them,  she  would  have  a  talk  with  her  hus- 
band on  the  subject  and  debate  cold-bloodedly  the 
question  of  their  wealth  and  the  possibility  of  their 
not  casting  disrepute  on  the  Satterthwaite  endorse- 
ment. She  was  still  young  enough  —  or  estimated 
herself  so  —  to  dance  at  assemblages  where  there  was 


36  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

not  too  overwhelming  a  horde  of  fresh  debutantes. 
She  was  still  held  to  be  passably  nice-looking,  too, 
and  gossip  had  not  spared  her  its  covert  innuendo 
while  never  touching  her  with  the  unsheathed  sting  of 
its  accusation.  All  in  all,  the  two  sistei'S  mutually 
disapproved  of  each  other.  But  it  was  a  rather  peace- 
ful contest,  in  which  either  family  joined  and  in  which 
the  Auchinclosses  gained  a  silent  perpetual  victory. 
The  Satterthwaites  knew  very  well  that  they  had  a 
remarkably  good  tone ;  but  somehow  the  Auchin- 
closses, who  gave  no  large  balls,  and  one  dinner  party 
to  their  five,  had  distinctively  a  better  tone.  No  open 
enmity  existed,  and  yet  there  was  a  certain  bitter  feel- 
ing on  both  sides. 

As  regarded  this  abhorred  relationship  of  Mrs. 
Ottarson's,  however,  they  met  on  warmly  congenial 
grounds.  The  sisters,  in  discussion  together,  had 
called  her  "that  horrible  boarding-house  woman"  and 
the  fact  that  she  had  nursed  their  brother  in  his  dying: 

•/          O 

hours  had  been  to  them  a  misery  over  which  they 
could  mourn  in  faultlessly  congenial  unison. 

"  I  presume,  ladies,  you  agree  with  me,"  delivered 
from  so  unpleasant  a  source  as  that  of  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
decided  them  in  showing  their  most  glacial  uncon- 
cern. They  liked  Olivia;  they  considered  her  excel- 
lent style  for  so  young  a  girl,  and  were  prepared  to 
help  her  and  stand  by  her  as  one  of  their  blood  and 
race.  They  were  deeply  sorry  that  it  had  become 
necessary  to  bear  her  a  certain  very  miserable  piece  of 
tidings.  They  had  concluded,  however,  that  she 
must  be  summarily  though  discreetly  told,  and  there- 
fore the  presence  of  Mrs.  Ottarson  doubtless  kindled 
the  animosity  which  surely  needed  no  additional  fuel. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  37 

Olivia  saw  the  premeditated  impertinence  of  their 
demeanor.  She  did  not  intend  that  it  should  hurt  her 
aunt  Thyrza  by  any  prolonged  sanction.  "  Oh,  yes," 
she  soon  said,  "  I  am  certain  that  I  can  find  other 
quarters,  if  this  dear  old  house  should  prove  unsatis- 
factory. Why  should  I  not  do  so  ?  " 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  stole  a  glance  at  her  sister.  This 
kind  of  self-possession  rang  more  like  that  of  the  typical 
American  girl  than  of  the  demoiselle  reared  as  Olivia 
had  been  among  European  surroundings.  But  they 
had  yet  to  learn  how  Ameiican  their  niece  had  man- 
aged to  keep  herself,  despite  a  life-time  spent  so  largely 
abroad. 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  coughed  rather  meaningly  at  this 
point.  "  My  dear  Olivia,''  she  said,  "  you  touch  upon 
a  matter  that  interests  both  your  aunt  Augusta  and 
myself."  Then  she  coughed  again,  lower  than  before, 
and  proceeded :  "  I  must  say  something  to  you  now 
which  would  perhaps  seem  a  little  brusque  unless  — 
unless  the  full  necessity  of  its  disclosure  were  kept  in 
mind.  Your  aunt  Augusta  and  I  have  desired  to  speak 
with  you  —  alone.  We  have  thought  it  necessary  to 
do  so.  We  have  —  " 

Here  Mrs.  Ottarson  rose  precipitately  and  brist- 
lingly.  "Alone,  eh?"  she  broke  forth.  "W'y,  there 
can't  be  the  least  objection  to  that.  I'll  retire,  'Livia." 
She  was  close  at  her  niece's  side  now,  and  her  cheeks 
had  taken  a  little  flush  that  matched  the  excited  glit- 
tering of  her  eyes. 

The  next  instant  Olivia  had  risen  too.  She  caught 
her  aunt's  arm  and  exhorted  very  persuasively:  "I 
beg  that  you  will  remain  !  I  prefer  you  to  hear  what- 
ever is  said." 


38  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  Olivia !  "  broke  from  the  lips  of  her  two  other 
relatives,  and  not  only  in  spontaneous  exclamation,  but 
with  an  inflection  of  equal  dismay  on  the  part  of  both. 

"  Mrs.  Ottarson  —  Aunt  Thyrza  —  would  be  sure  to 
hear  what  you  told  me,  whether  you  told  it  me  alone 
or  in  her  company.  She  is  my  dear  friend,  and  I  am 
more  grateful  to  her  than  my  heart  can  express."  The 
girl  stood  with  one  arm  about  Mrs.  Ottarson's  waist 
now,  and  one  hand  clasping  hers.  In  her  black  dross, 
and  with  her  wistful  face  and  bright  hair,  she  made  a 
picture  of  clinging  tenderness  and  trust.  But  it  was  a 
picture  that  apparently  failed  to  charm  the  two  ladies 
who  sat  fronting  it. 

Mrs,  Auchincloss  never  permitted  herself  to  be 
angry.  She  looked  upon  the  loss  of  one's  temper  as 
though  it  were  something  not  wholly  unlike  the  loss  of 
one's  conscience.  She  always  smiled  when  she  con- 
sidered herself  justified  in  showing  indignation  ;  it 
was  part  of  her  self-disciplining  creed  to  do  so  ;  and 
besides  a  smile  broke  up  and  softened  certain  hard, 
tense-looking  lines  that  would  show  themselves  at 
periods  of  mental  disturbance  on  either  side  of  her 
slim,  pink  nose,  slanting  downward  to  the  region  of  her 
thin  and  rather  frosty  lips. 

"Either  I  am  mistaken,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "or 
your  gratitude  is  just  now  somewhat  of  a  drawback  to 
your  civility."  Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  gave  a  little 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a  satirical  titter  of  laughter. 

Mrs.  Ottarson's  face  flushed  deeper,  till  two  spots  of 
color  bloomed  quite  richly  in  the  olive  dusk  of  either 
cheek ;  you  saw  what  a  comely  young  creature  she  must 
have  been  when  her  reprobate  of  a  husband  had  fooled 
her  into  marrying  him  years  ago. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  39 

"  I  guess  you  are  mistaken,"  declared  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
gazing  straight  at  the  superb  eldest  daughter  of  the 
Van  Rensselaer  dynasty.  "'Livia  don't  want  to  be 
uncivil,  ma'am.  But  if  you'll  excuse  my  sayin'  so,  it 
looks  a  good  deal  more  as  if  you  wanted  to  be.  I 
jnean  to  me.  You  understand." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  fluttered  her  eyelids  and  turned 
with  a  gently  despairing  expression  toward  her  sister, 
as  much  as  to  ask,  "  How  shall  I  deal  with  this  barba- 
rian?" 

But  immediately  afterward  Mrs.  Ottarson  went  on  : 
"  I'd  ever  so  much  rather  leave  this  room.  I  haven't 
got  any  curiosity  to  hear  what  you  ladies  are  a-goin'  to 
say.  But  I'll  stay  if  'Livia  wishes  I  should.  I  staid 
when  her  father  was  sick  to  death  for  jus'  that  reason 
—  she  wished  me  to.  I  hadn't  got  as  good  a  right  to 
nurse  him,  an'  help  him  die  easy,  as  you  two  very 
el'gant  folks  had.  But  somehow  or  other  —  I  must 
say  it — you  wasn't  on  hand  when  you  might  'a  been. 
You're  his  blood,  and  I  ain't;  I  s'pose  I'm  what  you'd 
call  no  blood  at  all.  But  you  didn't  step  up  when  the 
time  came.  You  called,  an'  you  sent  calve's-foot  jelly, 
an'  grapes,  an'  things,  and  you  looked  mel'nc'olly  when 
you  heard  how  bad  he  was,  an'  said  '  oh,'  an'  '  ah,'  an' 
that  was  'bout  the  whole  o'  what  you  did  do.  I  s'pose 
you  ladies  know  your  duty;  I  ain't  tellin'  you  what  it 
ought  to  be.  But  my  duty  was  near  my  dead  sister's 
child,  an'  I  just  stuck  there.  An'  if  I  stick  there  now 
'cause  she  asks  me,  I'd  thank  you  to  remember  that  it 
is  on  that  account  an'  no  other.  Our  spWes,  yours 
an'  mine,  are  pretty  wide  apart.  I  do'  want  to  move 
in  yours  any  more  'n  you  want,  I  guess,  to  belong  to 
iiriue.  But  I  ain't  to  be  sat  on,  for  all  that." 


40  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  Aunt  Thyrza ! "  cried  Olivia,  at  this  point,  with  a 
very  plain  distress  in  her  mien  and  voice,  "  it's  of  no 
use  to  be  angry.  Sit  down  here  beside  me."  She  put 
both  arms  about  Mrs.  Ottarson  while  she  thus  spoke, 
and  pushed  the  lady  into  a  chair  near  the  one  from 
which  she  herself  had  lately  risen.  Then  she  took  a 
seat  close  at  her  side.  "  Nobody  has  thought  of  treat- 
ing you  rudely."  Her  blue  eyes  were  swimming  in 
tears  now,  as  she  turned  toward  her  two  visitors. 
"Aunt  Letitia,  Aunt  Augusta,"  she  went  on,  tremu- 
lously, "  please  blame  me  for  everything.  I  know  you 
didn't  mean  to  show  this  dear,  kind  friend  of  mine  the 
least  impoliteness.  I  know  .  .  ." 

And  then  Olivia  paused.  Mrs.  Auchincloss's  face, 
in  its  serene  austerity,  smote  her,  for  it  had  quite  for- 
gotten its  formulated  smile  ;  and  on  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  plumper,  a  trifle  redder  than  her  sister's, 
and  never  without  its  claim  to  a  kind  of  blemished  but 
assertive  charm,  had  appeared  the  signs  of  languid, 
sneering  amusement. 

"All  this  is  really  so  very  extraordinary,"  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite  now  laughed,  touching  her  long  gloves 
with  either  hand,  as  if  to  see  that  they  were  still 
blamelessly  adjusted. 

"Extraordinary?"  echoed  her  sister,  and  speaking 
as  if  the  words  burnt  her  lips  a  little.  "  It  is  prepos- 
terous ! " 

In  a  certain  way  they  were  both  quite  right.  If  to 
be  angry  is  to  be  wrong,  Mrs.  Ottarson  had  wretch- 
edly committed  herself.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  had  the 
power  to  defend  her  cause  —  if  she  could  be  conceived 
of  as  deigning  to  do  so  —  by  the  announcement  that 
she  had  taken  the  only  admissible  means  of  seeking  a 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  41 

private  talk  with  her  niece.  Mrs.  Ottarson's  attack 
was  really  the  accumulated  spleen  of  years  —  and  not 
half  or  a  quarter  of  ^it  yet,  either.  She  knew  that 
these  women  had  scorned  her  sister  and  loathed  the 
tie  which  bound  her  to  their  brother.  There  had 
never  been  any  circumstance  relating  to  this  Van  Rens- 
selaer  marriage  that  had  not  wakened  either  her  regret 
or  her  detestation,  except  one.  That  was  Olivia.  As 
she  looked  now  into  the  girl's  worried,  moistened  eyes, 
a  thrill  of  repentance  passed  through  her.  "I  was 
mad,"  she  whispered.  "  I  kind  o'  lost  my  head.  She 
made  me,  'Livia.  I'll  try  not  to  again.  But  you 
better  let  me  leave.  I'll  just  wait  f  you  upstairs." 

"  No ;    stay,"   said  Olivia,   also   whispering.     There 
was  something  in  the  countenances  of  her  two  guests 

O  O 

now  that  filled  her  with  dread  to  remain  alone  beside 
them.  It  would  not  have  been  so  at  all  times;  she 
had  inherent  coolness,  nerve,  and  courage,  in  ample 
share  ;  but  to-day  her  young  soul  had  been  brought 
downward  into  that  valley  of  the  shadow  whose  gloom 
must  ever  prove  as  keenly  the  repugnance  of  youth  as 
it  is  sometimes  the  refuge  and  relief  of  age. 

"  My  dear  child,"  began  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  with  a 
douceur  that  seemed  (as  a  witty  Englishman  once  re- 
marked of  a  contemporary's  geniality)  to  be  enam- 
elled on  iron,  "we  shall  perhaps  take  a  much  wiser 
course,  your  aunt  Augusta  and  I,  if  we  say  nothing 
whatever  on  the  subject  we  had  decided  to  discuss. 
For  myself,  Olivia,  I  confess  that  I  have  possibly  been 
too  hasty  in  alluding  to  it  at  all.  And  now  let  me  ask  your 
pardon  for  doing  so."  It  somehow  did  not  appear  as 
if  Mrs.  Auchincloss  were  asking  Olivia's  pardon,  or  that 
of  any  one  else,  while  she  thus  spoke ;  her  last  sen- 


42  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

tence  implied  nothing  but  the  most  superficial  cere- 
mony of  phrasing.  "  It  is  an  important  question  ;  but 
let  it  pass  for  the  present." 

Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  rose,  a  little  bustlingly  and 
imperiously,  while  her  black  draperies  (in  all  respects 
the  kind  of  mourning  which  decorous  millinery  would 
exact  from  a  bereaved  sister)  disposed  themselves  to 
advantage  about  her  neat-moulded  person. 

"  Yes,"  said  that  lady ;  "  let  it  pass  for  the  present. 
We  will  come  and  see  you  some  other  time,  my  dear, 
when  you  are  less  engaged  with  your  rather  explosive 
acquaintance  there." 

"  Augusta ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  with 
great  dignity,  and  a  chiding  intonation. 

"  I'm  not  an  acquaintance,  if  you  please,"  sped  from 
Mrs.  Ottarson,  even  while  Olivia  was  pressing  her  hand 
as  if  in  dumb  entreaty  to  curb  all  irate  repartee.  "  I'm 
her  mother's  sister,  an'  quite  as  much  her  aunt  as  you 
are.  I'm  a  Jenks,  or  was,  an'  so  was  you  a  Van  Rens- 
selaer.  You  mustn't  forget,  though,  that  a  Jenks  once 
married  a  Van  Rensselaer.  I  dare  say  you'd  like  to, 
ma'am,  but  you'll  excuse  me  for  remind  in'  you  that 
you  mustn't.  I  ain't  here  as  an  acquaintance ;  I'm 
here  as  a  blood-relation,  just  as  you  are." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  looked  at  Mrs.  Ottarson  with  a 
plain  curl  of  the  lip  now.  She  had  not  her  sister's 
equipoise.  She  had  lost  her  temper  a  good  many  times 
in  her  life,  and  she  lost  it  then. 

"  What  an  insupportable  person  you  are !  "  she  said, 
with  a  drawl  and  a  sneer.  "You  succeed  in  doing  one 
thing,  and  very  successfully.  You  make  me  regret 
more  than  I  ever  have  regretted  (and  that  is  saying  con- 
siderable) that  a  Jenks  did  marry  a  Van  Rensselaer." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  43 

r 

Olivia  flung  both  arms  round  Mrs.  Ottarson's  neck. 
"  Don't  —  don't  answer,  Aunt  Tliyrza !  "  she  cried  sup- 
plicatingly.  And  Mrs.  Ottarson  did  not. 

"All  right,  'Livia,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  pooh! 
she  don't  rile  me  half  as  much  as  the  other.  I  don't 
mind  spunk  half  as  much  as  I  do  that  s'castical,  up-in- 
the-clouds  talk.  I  guess  I  can  sit  still ;  I  guess  I  can  ; 
I'll  try,  any  way,  for  your  sake.  It'll  be  hard,  but  I'll 
jus'  grit  my  teeth  an'  try!" 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  had  now  risen.  Both  ladies  went 
toward  the  door,  as  if  in  act  of  departure.  Olivia 
gave  Mrs.  Ottarson  one  final  pressure  of  the  hand,  and 
then  rose  herself. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  said  flurriedly.  "You  — 
you  spoke,  Aunt  Letitia,  of  —  of  something  impor- 
tant. I  —  I  hope  it  does  not  concern  poor  papa,  in 
any  manner." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  "  it  concerns  only 
yourself,  now." 

"Myself?"  repeated  Olivia.     "How?" 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  gave  a  sort  of  despairing  sigh. 
"We  meant  to  put  it  all  to  you  as  gently  as  possible. 
We  meant,  my  dear,  to  tell  you  that  we  would  always 
be  your  helpers,  your  supporters,  as  far  as  we  were 
able.  We  only  thought  of  mentioning  it,  on  this  most 
sorrowful  of  days,  because  Mr.  Delaplaine,  your 
father's  late  partner,  urged  and  advised  us  to  do  so." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  anything  more,  if  I  were  you,  just 
now,  Letitia,"  struck  in  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  with  a 
haughty  sidelong  glance  at  Mrs.  Ottarson,  who  still 
remained  seated. 

Mrs.  Ottarson  had  heard  everything  thus  far.  She 
returned  Mrs.  Satterthwaite's  glance  with  one  that  was 


44  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

comically  hostile,  because  she  so  instantly  dropped  her 
black,  enkindled  eyes  after  giving  it,  as  if  in  forcedly 
penitent  recollection  of  her  promise  to  Olivia.  And 
then  she  heard  Mrs.  Auchincloss  continue  speaking 
with  her  niece,  but  could  make  out  nothing  of  what 
that  lady  said,  for  the  reason  that  the  latter  spoke  in 
so  low  a  tone.  The  converse  seemed  to  last  quite  a 
while  ;  occasionally  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  would  put  in 
a  word,  but  her  voice  was  equally  inaudible. 

Mrs.  Ottarson  made  no  attempt  to  listen.  Her  anger 
had  died,  as  it  always  did  die,  rapidly.  But  her  curi- 
osity was  now  aflame.  She  sat  wondering  what  this 
mysteiious  converse  meant.  But  she  would  have  lost 
a  finger  rather  than  show  the  slightest  sign  of  any- 
thing but  placid  indifference  to  its  progress  or  sig- 
nificance. 

Presently  the  ladies  withdrew  from  Olivia.  Thus 
far  she  had  not  seen  her  niece's  face  ;  but  now,  as  Mrs. 
Auchincloss  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  swept  quietly 
across  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room,  Olivia  turned 
and  hurried  in  her  own  direction. 

In  an  instant  she  saw  how  terribly  pale  the  girl  had 
grown. 

"  'Livia ! "  she  cried,  starting  up  from  her  chair. 
"  What  is  it  ?  What  have  they  said  to  you  ?  " 

But  Olivia,  too  evidently,  could  not  answer  in  the 
desired  way.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Thyrza,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it 
is  too  horrible  !  "  And  then  with  a  white,  forlorn, 
stricken  look,  she  flung  herself  upon  the  breast  of  her 
companion,  bursting  into  a  torrent  of  woful  sobs. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  45 


m. 

IT  was  some  little  time  before  Olivia  regained 
her  self-control.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Ottarson  had  drawn 
her  to  a  sofa  and  had  used  upon  her  arts  of  so  volu- 
bly and  naturally  soothing  a  sort  that  if  her  wretched- 
ness had  not  been  severe  as  it  was,  the  girl  might  have 
broken  into  laughter  at  some  of  the  endearing  diminu- 
tives by  which  she  now  heard  herself  addressed. 
When  her  tears  had  ceased  to  flow  she  sat  with  quiv- 
ering underlip  and  stared  straight  before  her.  She 
seemed  to  be  asking  some  silent  question  of  the  future's 
very  silence.  Mrs.  Ottarson,  stirred  more  by  this 
mood  than  by  the  stormier  one,  at  length  showed  her 
own  suspenseful  alarm. 

"  My  sakes  alive,  'Livia !  if  you  don't  jus'  want  to 
drive  me  clean  out  o'  my  seven  senses  you'll  let  me 
know  what  is  the  matter." 

And  then  Olivia  gave  a  start,  turning  again  to  her 
aunt,  "  I  must  have  frightened  you  so,  Aunt  Thyrza," 
she  said  tremulously.  "It  was  selfish  of  me.  I  should 
recollect  how  your  nerves  and  strength  have  been  tried 
far  more  than  mine,  with  those  many  nights  of 
watching." 

"  O,  bosh,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson,  roughly  intolerant  of 
being  over-valued.  "I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and 
never  had  a  nerve  in  my  life.  Now  do  tell  me  what 
the  trouble  is.  It's  something  those  two  said,  of 
course." 


46  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"Yes,"  answered  Olivia. 

There  was  a  little  more  silence,  and  then  she  impet- 
uously cried  :  "  Think  of  it,  Aunt  Thyrza !  Papa  has 
left  nothing  —  or  it's  even  less  than  that !  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine  had  for  years  been  warning  him,  they  say,  that 
he  was  over-spending  his  income.  And  finally  his 
partner  had  written  him  a  letter,  very  direct  and  plain, 
which  brought  us  back  to  America  for  the  last  time. 
I  recollect  the  letter.  It  came  to  us  last  August  when 
we  were  at  Zermatt.  It  made  papa  almost  ill ;  his  dis- 
ease was  beginning  then,  and  he  could  no  longer  bear 
a  shock  without  showing  it.  He  said  it  was  not  the 
letter,  but  I  always  had  my  doubts.  In  October  we 
crossed  again,  coming  to  this  house  as  usual.  There 
was  a  very  long  interview,  I  cleai'ly  recall,  between  Mr. 
Delaplaine  and  my  father  on  the  first  evening  after  our 
arrival ;  but  I  am  nearly  sure  there  was  no  quarrel. 
Still  a  coldness,  I  think,  sprang  up  between  them  from 
that  time.  And  I  suspected  so  little  what  the  real 
difficulty  was!  Through  three  months  or  so,  until  he 
was  taken  ill,  papa  went  very  often  to  his  office  in 
Wall  Street.  Sometimes  he  would  look  miserably 
weary  and  disturbed  when  he  came  back.  Everything 
was  lost,  Aunt  Thyrza  —  everything!  And  I  never 
dreamed  he  was  in  the  midst  of  such  misfortune.  I 
believe  this  will  be  my  chief  sorrow  hereafter  —  that 
he  suffered  so  without  my  knowing  it.  Of  course, 
just  now,  it  almost  takes  my  breath  away  to  think  of 
myself  —  of  what  I  am  going  to  do  —  of  the  little  I 
actually  can  do.  It  has  come  so  suddenly.  They 
assure  me  there  is  nothing  left —  papa  has  spent  it  all. 
He  kept  over-drawing  and  over-drawing.  He  never 
had  the  least  regard  for  money  —  I  had  often  noticed 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  47 

that  in  him.  My  aunts  say  that  for  years  he  continued 
to  answer  Mr.  Delaplaine  in  the  most  hopeful  terms. 
He  had  spent  great  sums  while  mamma  was  alive ;  he 
had  thrown  thousands  away.  But  he  insisted  that 
the  success  of  the  banking-house  would  hereafter  mend 
his  fortunes.  Then  he  began  to  borrow  of  his  partner. 
All  might  have  gone  well,  even  then,  if  he  had  not 
taken  to  gambling." 

"Gambling?"  echoed  Mrs.  Ottarson.  Her  idea 
of  a  man  who  gambles  was  essentially  a  New  York 
one.  She  swiftly  had  a  vision  of  personages  with 
dyed  black  moustaches  and  exorbitant  gold  watch- 
chains,  who  haunted  the  stoops  of  certain  semi-repu- 
table hotels,  who  drove  in  "sulkies"  behind  fast 
trotting-horses,  who  hung  about  the  gilded  bar-room 
of  the  old  St.  Nicholas,  on  what  was  once  central 
Broadway,  and  who  prowled  at  night  to  clandestine 
gaming-dens  in  the  gloom  of  Crosby  Street  and  similar 
uncanny  purlieus,  where  they  swindled  credulous  vic- 
tims at  poker  or  faro.  "  Gambling ! "  she  repeated. 
"Oh,  no,  'Livia.  It  can't  be  true  of  your  father, 
dear !  He  was  always  too  high-toned  for  that  kind  o' 
thing!" 

Olivia  gave  a  dreary  smile.  "  So  many  gentlemen 
gamble  abroad,"  she  said,  "and  papa  did  it.  It  all 
comes  back  to  me  now.  I  was  with  him  for  several 
weeks,  three  years  ago,  at  Monaco  and  Monte  Cai-lo. 
I  never  thought  it  even  strange,  then,  that  he  should 
play;  hundreds  of  others  played,  his  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. But  I  realize  now  that  it  was  a  vice 
with  him."  She  drooped  her  head,  for  an  instant,  and 
pressed  both  hands  against  her  eyes.  They  were  quite 
tearless  eyes  when  she  again  revealed  them,  but  they 


48  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

shone  with  a  dry,  hard  light  from  her  sweet,  pale  face. 
"  Oh,  there  is  no  use,  Aunt  Thyrza,"  she  went  on,  "  of 
my  disguising  the  truth  to  myself.  Aunt  Letitia  and 
Aunt  Augusta  came  with  a  kindly  enough  motive. 
You  don't  like  them  —  neither  do  I.  But  they  meant 
to  prepare  me  for  the  very  worst  as  gently  as  they 
could.  Perhaps  they'd  have  done  it  more  gently  still, 
if  you  hadn't  .  .  .  But  never  mind.  Don't  think  that 
I  blame  you,  for  I  do  not.  Mr.  Delaplaine  is  corning 
to  see  me  this  evening,  and  they  would  have  me  meet 
him  with  some  knowledge  of  what  he  would  say.  They 
were  quite  right;  give  them  their  due,  Aunt  Thyrza.'' 

"And  he's  a  rich  man,  ain't  he,  'Livia?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so.  Papa  is  in  his  debt  for  I  don't 
know  how  much." 

"  Well,  he  won't  mind  that  now,  of  course.  He'll 
make  some  proposal  about  .  .  .  settling  matters ;  of 
course  he  will.  He'll  tell  you  just  how  things  are, 
and  then  —  " 

Olivia  gave  an  interrupting  laugh,  so  sharp  and 
bitter  that  it  sounded  like  the  travesty  of  mirth. 
"And  then?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  then,  if  you 
please?  This  very  house  we  are  in  belongs  to  him, 
my  aunts  say.  How  can  there  be  any  settling  of 
matters?  If  he  chooses  to  help  me  for  a  little  while 
until  I've  something  to  do  for  my  own  living,  that  is 
his  own  affair.  But  to  accept  permanent  help  from 
him — or  from  anybody!"  Here  Olivia  rose,  and  a 
great  pride,  at  work  in  her  young  spirit,  gave  new 
firmness  to  the  line  of  her  delicate  lips.  "As  long  as 
my  health  lasts  I  shall  never  be  a  burden  like  that." 
She  shivered  suddenly,  as  though  a  rush  of  cold  air 
had  struck  her,  and  looked  to  right  and  left  with  the 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  49 

mixed  bewilderment  and  rebellion  of  a  bird  that  for 
the  first  time  finds  itself  caged.  That  new,  captive 
sense  was  upon  her  —  that  feeling  of  having  been 
abruptly  tripped  into  a  pitfall  by  destiny  —  which  may 
rouse  just  such  an  involuntary  gesture  of  would-be 
escape.  "  Oh,"  she  burst  forth,  "  how  can  I  ever  get 
familiar  with  the  change  of  it  all!  Aunt  Thyrza,  I 
think  I  know  something,  now,  of  the  way  people  feel 
in  an  earthquake.  The  one  support  goes  to  pieces 
that  they've  forgotten  even  to  trust ;  trusting  it  has 
grown  like  breathing.  I  never  could  conceive  of  my- 
self as  poor,  somehow.  I've  pitied  others  often  enough, 
but  there  seemed  always  a  great  gulf  between  their 
calamity  and  my  secure  state.  Want  and  I  seemed 
not  born  to  meet  in  this  world.  Ah,  how  differently 
it  has  turned  out !  " 

"If  I  only  had  a  home  fit  for  one  like  you  are  to  come 
to  it !  "  Mrs.  Ottarson  sighed.  "  But  I'm  'fraid  things 
would  never  suit  you,  'Livia,  up  there  to  my  boarding- 
house."  Here  a  very  perturbed  frown  appeared  on 
the  speaker's  forehead.  "La's  a-mercy  me!  What 
can  you  do  for  a  livin',  dear?  You  ain't  handy  at 
your  needle,  much  ;  besides,  that's  a  dog's  life.  And 
teachin'?  Well,  that  isn't  much  better,  I  guess." 

"That  must  be  my  fate,  I  suppose,"  said  Olivia, 
solemnly.  "I  shall  have  to  teach.  Some  of  those 
fine  relations  of  mine  ought  to  assist  me,  there.  If  it 
were  only  giving  French  lessons!  I'm  sure  I  could 
do  that ;  I  know  the  language  so  thoroughly ;  it 
would  be  strange  if  I  didn't.  Just  before  I  left 
boarding-school,  one  of  the  principal  teachers  said  to 
me  that  there  was  no  difference  between  my  accent 
and  that  of  the  French  pupils." 


50  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Never  was  the  marvellous  buoyancy  of  the  youthful 
mind  and  heart  more  abundantly  evidenced  than  now. 
Indeed,  it  would  sometimes  seem  as  if  youth  and 
health,  when  once  fairly  commingled,  might  make  a 
talisman  wherewith  to  resist  the  fiercest  assaults  of 
disaster.  Already  Olivia's  eyes  harbored  a  gleeful 
sparkle  as  she  slipped  back  to  the  side  of  her  aunt. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talk  so  ! "  cried  the  latter. 
"  Th'  idea,  'Livia,  of  you  teachin' !  W'y,  the  Auchin- 
closses  and  Satterthwaites,  an'  all  the  rest  of  'em, 
ought  to  feel  proud " 

"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  broke  in  Olivia, 
and  not  with  the  meekest  of  tones.  "  And  I  pray 
you'll  not  even  suggest  it."  . 

"  Well,  then,  there's  Mr.  Delaplaine,  deary.  He 
was  always  a  friend  o'  your  pa's,  bein'  his  pardner. 
He  ought  to  do  something.  Oh,  I  guess  he  will." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  will  have  it  in  his  power  to 
do,  Aunt  Thyrza." 

"  Oh,  in  these  cases  I  dare  say  there's  pretty  much 
always  some  money  sort  o'  layin'  'round.  I  mean 
something  might  be  his  takin's  or  your  pa's  leavin's, 
whichever  way  he  chose  to  fix  it." 

Olivia  looked  at  her  aunt  as  though  this  rather  curi- 
ous view  indicated  a  subtlety  of  monetary  arrange- 
ment quite  baffling  to  her  own  perceptions. 

"If  Mr.  Delaplaine  offered  to  give  me  any  money," 
she  said,  "  I  should  refuse  it ;  for  that  would  mean 
simply  charity,  and  I  will  not  live  on  anybody's  char- 
ity except  my  own."  She  meant  the  words  with  such  a 
splendid  sincerity,  then !  Already  the  first  unnerved 
and  stunned  sensation  had  passed,  with  her. 

The  world  had  not  tamed  her  yet,  and  she  even  felt 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAISE.  51 

at  this  early  hour  a  faint  thrill  of  that  challenge  to  its 
taming  tendencies  which  few  but  the  really  strong 
natures  ever  feel.  Olivia  had  been  thought  a  marvel 
of  determination  and  character  while  at  school.  It 
was  indeed  strange  to  see  how  her  American  brain 
and  temperament  told  there.  Not  that  she  was  un- 
conventional. The  niceties  and  elegancies,  in  her 
case,  had  rather  to  be  nourished  than  acquired.  Her 
poor  dead  mother  may  have  been  the  daughter  of  a 
carpenter,  but  she  had  died  between  costlier  panellings 
than  Abner  Jenks  would  have  known  how  to  con- 
struct, and  all  the  child's  infancy  had  drifted  through 
experiences  clement  and  soothing  as  the  most  faithful 
attendance  could  make  them.  From  whatever  source 
the  money  came  —  whether  from  the  gaming-tables  of 
European  watering-places  or  from  the  indulgent  con- 
cession of  Spencer  Delaplaine's  coffers,  Olivia  had 
been  reared  by  its  magical  assistance  with  as  much 
quiet  fastidiousness  as  though  she  had  been  a  little 
princess  of  the  blood. 

But  some  hereditary  trait  of  independence  and  self- 
reliance  had  early  revealed  itself  as  her  dower.  At 
the  pension  she  was  never  like  the  other  girls;  she 
would  sometimes  laughingly  say  to  her  teachers  that 
the  lack  of  reserve  and  repose  for  which  they  chided 
her  was  a  result  of  certain  influences  exerted  by  her 
first  governess,  who  had  been  an  American  lady  hotly 
resenting  an  enforced  expatriation.  But  this  lady, 
who  adored  her  own  country  and  never  had  enough 
scorn  to  pour  upon  what  she  denounced  as  the  shame- 
ful restrictions  and  repressions  brought  to  bear  upon 
all  foreign  damsels,  could  not  have  done  more  than 
encourage  and  vivify  in  Olivia  attributes  which 


52  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

merely  waited  the  summons  of  her  tuition  and  coun- 
sel. Those  repeated  visits  to  New  York  with  her 
father  had  strenuously  influenced,  as  well,  the  mould- 
ing of  a  personality  destined  for  what  alien  censors 
of  etiquette  esteemed  over-assertive  and  even  un- 
maidenly.  Olivia  had  always  insisted  upon  the  un- 
manageable posture  of  having  personal  opinions.  She 
revolted  against  any  compulsory  retirement  into  back- 
grounds. There  had  never  been  the  least  use  in  tell- 
ing her  that  she  spoke  with  too  loud  a  tone,  that  she 
was  guilty  of  indecorous  enthusiasms,  that  she  violated 
this  or  that  dictum  of  recognized  restraint.  For 
seven  or  eight  years  before  her  final  trip  to  America 
she  had  resented  the  slightest  slur  cast  upon  the 
country  which  she  exulted  in  calling  her  own.  She 
inflexibly  championized  the  United  States,^and  not 
seldom  with  an  ardor  that  roused  enmity  and  dislike 
in  her  classmates. 

It  would  be  hard  to  explain  what  this  proclivity 
meant  if  heredity  were  not  really  at  the  root  of  it. 
Her  father's  distinct  patriotism  may  have  largely 
helped  its  development.  There  is  often  a  kind  of  odd 
pathos  in  the  love  cherished  for  their  native  land  by 
exiled  Americans  who  have  deliberately  concluded  to 
dwell  elsewhere.  Houston  Van  Rensselaer  not  seldom 
talked  in  a  loving  strain  about  the  superior  govern- 
ment and  institutions  of  "  the  other  side  "  which  his 
close  preferred  proximity  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  or 
to  the  Nelson  monument  in  Trafalgar  Square  might 
have  caused  a  bloodless  listener  to  condemn  as  rather 
triflingly  sentimental.  No  doubt  Olivia,  from  the 
most  plastic  periods  of  her  childhood,  had  been  im- 
pressed by  just  this  inconsistent  fervor  of  discourse. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLA1NE.  53 

But  whether  or  no  her  father  and  the  chronicled 
Europe-hating  governess  both  proved,  in  a  measure, 
sti'ong  incident  forces  upon  her  younger  life,  it  is 
certain  that  her  Americanism  continued  permanent 
and  paramount.  Altogether,  she  was  by  no  means 
unpopular  among  her  classmates.  She  had  the  gift  of 
swaying  them  by  her  advice  or  suggestion,  and  just 
before  she  left  for  these  shores,  crowned  with  no  mean 
academic  honors,  both  instructors  and  co-disciples 
equally  conceded  of  her  that  she  bore  the  mental 
birth-mark  of  a  vivid  though  perhaps  dangerous  origi- 
nality. 

She  was  a  girl  of  whom  those  who  knew  her  best, 
in  her  days  of  pupilage,  and  at  the  same  time  cared 
most  for  her  welfare,  would  prophesy  not  a  few  of  the 
future  miseries  that  one's  own  error  and  weakness  will 
engender.  She  had  a  monitory  conscience  enough ; 
her  moral  atmosphere  was  visited  by  no  misleading 
twilights  ;  wrong  was  detestable  to  her  from  every 
abstract  mode  of  regarding  it.  But  there  had  been 
occasions  in  her  brief  life  when  the  imp  of  the  per- 
verse had  successfully  prevailed  with  her.  By  esca- 
pades of  mischievous  audacity  she  had  made  the 
tranquil  pension  quake  to  its  very  centime  ;  but  these 
contumacious  freaks  had  always  ended  in  moods  of 
passionate  repentance,  and  in  eager  ascetic  craving  for 
punishment  more  rigorous  than  that  which  she  re- 
ceived. "  She  has  in  her  the  stuff  for  a  true  devote" 

would  muse  Madame  Z ,  her  principal  instructress, 

who  was  herself  a  fervent  Catholic.  "  If  she  once 
gained  the  mastery  over  those  wicked  inclinations, 
there  would  be  a  penitential  surrender  of  self  that 
means  just  the  right  state  of  soul  for  the  real  zealot." 


54  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINK 

But  Olivia  lacked  what  is  called  the  religious  disposi- 
tion. She  would  never  have  made  an  exemplary  nun, 
any  more  than  she  would  have  made  a  confirmed 
scoffer.  Reverence  was  as  little  a  part  of  her  being 
as  impiety.  The  dubious  and  questioning  bent  of  this 
remarkable  century  had  not  escaped  her  expanding 
intellect,  since  all  the  orthodoxy  of  her  boarding- 
school  encompassment  had  been  constantly  antago- 
nized, so  to  speak,  by  long  talks  during  vacations 
with  her  father,  never  a  man  to  treat  deferentially  the 
"accepted"  theologic  codes.  "I  sometimes  think, 
papa,"  Olivia  had  said  to  him  during  one  of  their  con- 
versations, "  that  I  must  have  had  a  thoroughly  evil 
person  for  an  ancestor.  He  or  she  belonged  either  to 
mamma's  people  or  to  yours ;  I  can't,  of  course,  even 
speculate  on  that  point.  But  I've  had  the  conviction 
that  there's  some  such  reason  for  my  occasional  bad 
seizures." 

Houston  Van  Rensselaer  laughed  at  this  theory  as 
something  prettily  droll  in  a  girl  of  sixteen.  He 
had  judged  what  Ids  daughter  had  remorsefully  con- 
fided to  him  as  her  diablerie  to  be  the  amusing  com- 
punction of  an  over-sensitive  young  casuist.  He 
forgot  how  much  her  very  mannerisms  of  speech 
had  been  borrowed  from  his  own  carelessly  clever 
way  of  putting  things,  and  he  was  wholly  ignorant 
of  how  unconsciously  but  accurately  she  reproduced 
many  of  his  indolent,  daring  views  when  once  more 
reinstated  among  guardians  whom  these  could  not  fail 
to  shock. 

"I've  no  doubt,  my  dear,"  he  had  answered,  "that 
you  could  go  back  on  both  sides  to  all  sorts  of  repro- 
bates, male  and  female.  But  it's  quite  idle  to  think 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  55 

about  that.  When  you  get  older,  you'll  wake  up  to 
the  fact  of  how  blen  elevee  you  really  are.  Then  it 
will  be  high  time  to  Aveigh  the  advisability  of  never 
forsaking  your  present  standard." 

"  But,  papa,  you  don't  understand,"  Olivia  had  ob- 
jected. "  I'm  not  speaking  of  what  I've  been  taught. 
I  mean  a  kind  of  headstrong  wish,  now  and  then',  to 
do  what  I've  been  taught  is  awfully  wrong." 

Her  father  laughed  away  this  protest  as  the  merest 
bagatelle  of -hair-splitting  scrupulosity.  "  Girls  of  your 
age,"  he  told  his  daughter,  "  often  get  morbidly  moral. 
It  never  does  much  harm,  I  suppose.  It's  like  the 
stir  of  the  sap  in  the  virgin  bud.  They  fancy  them- 
selves possible  sinners  because  they  begin  to  realize 
what  a  sinful  world  they've  been  born  into.  If  a 
snow-flake,  dropping  from  the  sky  into  a  dirty  city, 
like  this  huge  Paris  we're  in  at  present,  could  think 
and  speak,  I've  no  doubt  it  would  express  itself  very 
much  as  you  are  doing  now." 

But  Olivia  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  this  light 
dismissal  of  her  confession.  She  insisted  on  gauging 
her  own  faultiness  at  just  what  she  estimated  its  true 
range  of  demerit.  There  were  times  when  she  grew 
to  consider  her  acknowledged  demon  as  a  very  trac- 
table persecutor;  he  would  lie  so  pleasantly  dormant 
for  days  at  a  time.  It  was  not  that  her  wrong-doing 
ever  greatly  passed  the  bounds  of  roguery  and  prank- 
someness,  though  it  was  not  always  exempt  from  the 
ire  and  spite  of  vengeful  intention.  What  troubled 
Olivia  about  her  own  peccadilloes  had  far  less  to  do 
with  an  exaggeration  of  their  importance  than  with 
the  fact  that  she  committed  them  while  cleai'ly  con- 
scious of  just  what  dagger-points  of  coming  remorse 


56  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

she  was  sharpening  for  herself  by  the  process.  "  There 
comes  a  kind  of  vogue-la-gal£re  feeling  with  me,"  she 
once  explained  to  a  fellow-scholar.  "  I  resist  it,  and 
then  —  well,  then  I  don't  resist  it,  and  that's  all.  But 
I  could  if  I  wanted ;  there's  always  this  painful  arri&re 
pensee :  I  could  and  I  didn't." 

"But  do  you  really  try  with  all  your  might  and 
main,  Olivia?"  asked  her  companion,  who  was  a  tall, 
lithe,  overgrown  lily  of  an  English  girl,  with  a  face 
like  St.  Cecilia's,  and  big  brown,  pleading  eyes. 

"I  do  —  till  the  last  moment,"  said  Olivia  dryly. 
"  It's  that  last  moment  that  makes  me  knock  under," 
she  added,  with  a  rueful  shake  of  the  head,  having 
borrowed  unawai-e  one  of  her  father's  pet  phrases. 

Absolute  "  young-ladyhood  "  dropped  the  mantle  of 
dignity  over  her  before  she  left  the  pension,  and  mis- 
chief of  every  sort  became  a  diversion  vetoed  by 
pride.  Olivia  would  now  and  then  have  a  chilly  little 
presentiment  lest  the  vicious  part  of  her  composition 
were  not  so  successfully  tranquillized  as  it  seemed.  If 
the  demon  ever  should  rise  again,  he  would  have  other 
weightier  misdeeds  to  concern  himself  with  than 
schoolgirlish  capers.  "  Well,"  Olivia  meditated  once, 
not  long  after  she  had  been  graduated  into  freedom 
and  leisure,  "I  can  only  hope  that  now  I  am  old  and 
grown-up,  I  shall  be  lucky  enough  to  escape  tempta- 
tion. Without  temptation  as  an  assailant,  it  would  be 
pretty  hard  for  a  girl  like  me,  I  should  say,  not  to 
keep  her  self-respect  unblemished." 

Later  on,  this  question  of  temptation  assumed  for 
her  a  strange  and  gloomy  attractiveness.  Her  father 
had  rarely  exercised  any  heedful  supervision  over  her 
reading.  During  the  intervals  of  relaxation  from 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAIXE.  57 

study  he  had  not  precisely  let  her  read  what  she 
chose,  but  he  had  been  much  less  restrictive  on  this 
point  than  many  less  loving  parents  might  have 
proved.  And  now,  when  her  stay  at  the  seminary  was 
ended,  he  conceded  a  still  wider  latitude  of  choice. 
It  was  then  that  she  found  herself  selecting  books 
(whenever  she  could  light  on  them)  which  dealt  with 
the  careers  of  those  who  had  disappointed  high  ex- 
pectations entertained  by  their  friends  and  admirers, 
who  had  forsaken  their  own  ideals  of  conduct  either 
feebly  or  wantonly,  who  had  fallen  from  grace,  who 
had  bartered  for  a  mess  of  pottage  the  golden  birth- 
right allotted  by  circumstance.  She  incessantly  put 
herself  in  the  places  of  these  unfortunate  human  fail- 
ures. "How  would  I  have  behaved,"  she  ceaselessly 
asked  herself,  "  if  I  had  been  situated  just  as  this  or 
that  character  was  ?  " 

The  world  that  she  was  to  dwell  in,  and  that  she 
hoped  to  shine  in,  spread  before  her  like  a  delightful 
un ventured  country  before  a  traveller  who  has  just 
reached  it  along  not  a  few  wearisome  preparatory 
leagues.  She  wanted  to  live  her  life  duteously  and 
nobly.  She  had  said  this  again  and  again  to  her  half- 
amused,  half-admiring  father  during  the  last  healthful 

'  ~  O 

months  of  his  existence ;  she  had  said  it  more  than 
once,  while  he  lay  ill  in  Washington  Square,  to  the 
aunt  whose  unforeseen  kindliness  and  fortitude  had 
waked  in  her  such  a  warmth  of  thankful  love.  Mrs. 
Ottarson  had  thought  it  just  such  a  desire  and  resolve 
as  a  girl  of  her  fine  calibre  would  be  visited  by.  But 
Olivia  had  not  at  all  meant  it  in  that  way.  She  soon 
decided  that  her  aunt  Thyrza  was  incapable  of  follow- 
ing her  lines  of  reflection  and  analysis.  The  fears 


58  OLIVIA   VELAPLAINE. 

that  she  perpetually  fostered  regarding  herself  would 
have  seemed  ludicrous  to  a  nature  at  once  as  strong  and 
as  simple  as  Mrs.  Ottarson's.  She  would  have  thought 
this  whole  matter  of  self-distrust  quite  as  nonsensical 
as  Van  Rensselaer  had  done ;  but  she  would  have 
lacked  her  brother-in-law's  acumen  and  mental  training 
in  the  discussion  of  it. 

And  so,  during  those  dreary  days  that  preceded  her 
father's  death,  while  she  watched  for  the  shadow  that 
had  entered  the  still  old  house  to  gradually  grow 
blacker  and  more  portentous,  Olivia  fell  to  brooding 
upon  all  the  chances  which  might  await  her  of  wisely, 
honorably  and  capably  husbanding  what  was  truest, 
sweetest  and  most  wholesome  in  her  own  discerned 
individuality.  And  it  was  now,  when  the  dolorous 
task  which  engaged  her  made  this  introspective  office 
take  a  more  appropriate  coloring,  that  she  assured 
herself  how  fecund  were  the  opportunities  within  her 
reach.  She  would  be  rich ;  she  was  what  a  good 
many  of  her  countrypeople  would  insist  upon  calling 
an  aristocrat  by  birth ;  she  had  been  carefully  educa- 
ted ;  she  could  not  fail  of  holding  an  influential 
position.  How  would  she  use  these  rare  advantages  ? 
Ah,  how  preciously  could  she  use  them !  The  types 
already  presented  to  her  by  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  were  despicable  for  their  narrow- 
ness and  egotism.  Would  not  she  do  more  and  be 
more  than  these  two  servile  devotees  of  sham  and 
aiTogance  had  done  and  been? 

The  sudden  blow  that  had  fallen  upon  her  produced 
a  disarray  far  stronger  in  meaning  than  that  mere 
ebullition  of  hopeful  vivacity  with  which  we  have  last 
seen  her  rally  under  so  distressing  a  threat.  Mrs. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  59 

Ottavson's  bluff  and  homely  sympathies  were  welcome 
because  of  their  invaluably  genuine  quality.  But  after 
an  hour  or  two  Olivia  fled  even  from  those,  and  locked 
herself  in  her  own  room  upstairs,  to  try,  as  she  told 
her  aunt,  if  she  could  not  get  a  little  sleep  before  Mr. 
Delaplaine  called  upon  her.  She  got  no  sleep,  how- 
ever, and  courted  none.  She  lay  down,  and  the  rest 
of  body  composed  her  quivering  nerves,  perhaps,  while 
she  grew  almost  unexplainably  anxious  to  hear  what 
her  father's  late  partner  would  really  have  to  say. 
Her  aunts  had  told  her  that  he  felt  the  greatest  hesita- 
tion about  personally  mentioning  to  her  the  subject  of 
her  dead  parent's  financial  ruin.  But  it  had  somehow 
been  one  of  the  traditions  of  her  childhood  that  he 
was  an  exceedingly  able  person.  Her  father  had 
always  led  her  to  believe  this,  and  her  first  thrill  of 
irreverent  disrespect  for  him  had  occurred  during  those 
meetings  of  theirs  after  the  miserable  days  of  death- 
bed anxiety  had  begun,  when  his  frigid  self-continence, 
his  impenetrable  stolidity  had  repelled  and  disillu- 
sioned her.  Still,  she  now  forlornly  argued,  he  might 
come  with  the  suggestion  of  some  grateful  and  memo- 
rable expedient.  Why  not?  He  might  have  recog- 
nized that  in  spite  of  shattered  patrimony,  she  was 
not  one  of  those  who  would  accept  the  tame  concilia- 
tion, the  galling  peace-treaty  of  a  proffered  assistance. 
There  might  be  likelihood  that  he  would  arrive 
equipped,  as  it  were,  with  some  proposition  at  once 
uncondescending  and  feasible. 

"  It  will  not  be  fair  to  let  you  remain  here  after 
to-night,"  Olivia  told  Mrs.  Ottarson,  while  they  were 
seated  at  dinner,  that  same  evening,  in  the  large,  bleak 
dining-room  below  stairs. 


60  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Oh,  you  jus'  hush,  'Livia,"  retorted  her  aunt;  "I'll 
stay  's  long  's  ever  I  want  to ;  there  !  'Taint  a  soul's 
business  but  mine  ;  'taint  even  yours." 

"It's  your  boarders'  business,"  murmured  Olivia, 
looking  round  at  thi'ee  more  family  portraits,  all  of 
them  with  colorless  faces  that  gleamed  from  a  density 
of  dark  paint,  and  all  bordered  by  tarnished  gilt 
frames  hardly  a  finger  wide.  "  I  hate  to  think  of  your 
goodness  bringing  any  loss  to  you.  I  fear  it  has  done 
so  already.  But,  aunt,"  the  girl  went  on,  "I  will 
promise,  if  you  go  to-morrow,  to  go  with  you.  Yes,  I 
will  promise  to  go." 

"An'  stay?"  faltered  Mrs.  Ottarson.  Nothing 
could  have  given  her  greater  delight,  now  that  the 
tremendous  change  in  her  niece's  prospects  had  pre- 
sented itself,  than  to  retain  Olivia  under  her  protec- 
tion till  death  (or  only  marriage,  perhaps)  dissolved 
this  desirable  arrangement.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
stay,  do  you,  'Livia?" 

"  For  a  little  while,"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "  Until  I 
can  begin  my  fight  with  fortune,  you  know." 

Her  smile  had  the  light  of  tears  in  it ;  at  least, 
Mrs.  Ottarson  saw  it  thus.  But  she  shrugged  her 
plump  shoulders,  and  tried  to  speak  cheerfully. 
"  Well,  if  you  should  go  into  any  such  fight,  dear,  an' 
get  regular  beat  at  it,  y'  know,  there'll  always  be  me, 
openin'  my  arms  to  take  you  in."  .  .  .  Here  Mrs. 
Ottarson  gave  a  most  spirited  start,  dropping  both 
knife  and  fork  on  her  plate  with  a  resonant  clash. 
"  W'y,  'Liv — i — a!"  she  slowly  gasped,  staring  across 
the  little  round  table  at  which  they  sat  opposite  one 
another.  "  Th'  idea  of  my  not  thinkin'  of  't  'fore  now  ! 
Th'i— deal" 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  61 

"Well?"  said  Olivia.  She  perfectly  understood 
that  this  violent  yet  unsolved  consternation  on  her 
aunt's  part  meant  no  trivial  fancy.  A  concept  of 
moment  must  underlie  it,  or  she  would  never  have 
dedicated  to  it  so  asthmatic  an  intonation  or  so  be- 
wildered a  grimace.  "  Well,  Aunt  Thyrza,  what  dis- 
covery have  you  made  ?  " 

" Discov'ry,  'Livia ?  W'y,  it's  just  bursted  on  me! 
'Xcuse  the  word  'bursted';  it  isn't  extra  s'lect,  I 
know ;  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"I  don't  object  to  it,"  said  Olivia.  She  felt  confi- 
dent enough  that  there  was  to  be  no  groaning  of  a 
mountain  over  the  birth  of  a  mouse.  She  knew  how 
unexplosively  her  friend  could  act  when  firmness  and 
serenity  were  required  of  her,  and  she  had  the  fullest 
certainty  that  no  trifling  disclosure,  at  this  hour  of  her 
own  mingled  bereavement  and  perplexity,  would  be 
invested  with  idle  pretensions.  "  But  I  should  like 
to  know,"  she  proceeded,  "why  you  are  so  im- 
mensely concerned  without  a  minute's  warning  — 
really  I  should." 

"  Well,  dear,  you  shall  know."  Mrs.  Ottarson  now 
spoke  with  an  emphatic  deliberation.  "  It's  this. 
There's  Ida  Strang.  You've  often  heard  me  talk  'bout 
Ida.  'Course  you  have." 

"Ida  Strang?  Oh,  yes.  I've  seen  her,  too,  once 
or  twice.  She  came  here  to  speak  with  you  about 
matters  that  related  to  —  " 

"  My  establishment,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Ottarson.  She 
looked  round  to  see  if  the  waitress  had  left  the  dining- 
room,  and  found  that  this  was  the  case.  If  she  and 
her  niece  had  not  been  alone  together,  she  would  have 
preferred  that  Bridget  should  hear  the  word  "  estab- 


62  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

lishment"  instead  of  "  boarding-house."  But  she 
satisfied  herself  that  Bridget  was  gone  —  a  fact  whose 
weight  had  until  now  quite  escaped  her  consideration. 
"  Or  my  boardin'-house,  if  you  please,"  she  added 
lightly,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  recent  obvious  feint. 
"Yes,  I  rec'lect  you  have  seen  Ida.  Well,  as  I've 
told  you,  she's  a  kind  of  upper  help,  an'  yet  she  holds 
herself  higher  than  any  help  I've  got,  by  a  good  sight. 
She  'tends  to  things  I  can't  'tend  to.  She  sees  that 
the  girls  fix  the  rooms  jus'  so,  an'  she  mends  a  little, 
an'  she  keep  an  eye  on  the  bed-clo'es  an'  piller-cases, 
an'  she  stays  in  an'  kind  o'  bosses  things  when  I  go  t' 
market,  an'  —  oh,  dear, 'Livia,  I  can't  begin  to  'numer- 
ate what  that  girl  does  do.  But  mind,  she  ain't  really 
help,  nor  never  was.  Her  folks  are  very  genteel ;  they 
live  East ;  it  ain't  far  from  Boston.  She  always  eats 
her  meals  with  me.  She's  been  good  as  gold  while 
I've  been  away.  She  'pears  to  suit  splendid.  Of 
course  the  boarders  's  missed  my  cfeserts.  But  they've 
et  what  Ida  an'  Cook  together  could  knock  up  f'r  'em, 
an'  no  grumblin'  that  Pve  heard  of.  Oh,  Ida  'd  'a 
told  me  if  there  had  been.  An'  now  she's  goin'  to  be 
married.  Yes,  I  got  her  letter  yesterday.  If  't 
'a  come  't  any  other  time  I'd  'a  been  in  a  fluster 
'bout  it.  But  yesterday !  Why,  you,  know !  .  .  . 
She'd  first  met  him  East.  He's  got  a  place  here 
in  a  clothin'  store,  ready-made,  but  first-class  of  its 
kind.  They're  goin'  to  live  in  a  flat,  somewheres  up- 
town, an'  .  .  .  well,  it  all  'mounts  to  this  —  Ida's  got 
to  go."  Here  the  solemnity  of  Mrs.  Ottarson's  face 
became  tragic.  "'Livia!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice 
that  rang  with  the  deepest  and  truest  feeling,  "I'm 
givin'  Ida  Strang  twenty  dollars  a  month,  Of  course 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  63 

that  means  board,  an'  —  well,  I  was  goin'  to  speak 
'bout  her  appetite,  but  now  's  no  time  f  that  kind  o' 
talk;  is  it?  Still,  eat!  I  never  did  see  a  girl  that 
put  away  like  .  .  .  But,  oh,  'Livia,  if  any  one  had 
told  me  this  mornin'  I  should  be  makin'  such  a  pro- 
posal t'  you,  I'd  'a  laughed  in  their  face  f'r  a  fool  o'  the 
first  water.  An'  yet  you  say  you  will  get  your  own 
livin',  an'  you  say  —  yes,  you  have  said  —  that  you 
love  y'r  aunt  Thyrzy,  faults  an'  all,  an'  w'y  isn't  it 
better  t'  come  to  me  like  that  than  t'  go  as  gov'ness  in 
some  stuck-up  family  that  would  chuckle  behind  your 
back  jus'  t'  see  one  o'  your  kind  brought  down.  'T 
isn't  bein'  a  servant,  'Livia,  mind.  Don't  look  like 
that !  —  's  if  you  wanted  t'  scold  me.  I'll  take  it  all 
back  if  it  bothers  you.  I'll  —  " 

"You  sha'n't  take  a  word  of  it  back,  you  darling!" 
cried  Olivia,  as  she  sprang  from  her  chair,  rounded 
the  slio-ht  curve  of  the  dining-table,  and  threw  both 

O  O  ' 

arms  about  her  aunt's  neck.  "  I'll  go  to  you  gladly 
that  way  !  I'll  take  Ida  Strang's  place  with  all  my 
heart.  If  you  made  me  your  servant,  I  shouldn't  care, 
so  long  as  you  paid  me  my  wages  for  honest  work !  " 

"'Livia!     Don't!" 

"  Yes,  I  will !  You  know  I'm  proud,  aunt,  but  I'd 
hate  myself  if  I  dreamed  of  being  proud  to  you !  " 
She  kissed  her  aunt's  olive  cheek  again  and  again,  and 
her  tears  began  to  flow  as  she  did  so,  and  no  doubt 
they  mixed  with  Mrs.  Ottarson's,  which  had  surely 
started  too.  "  I'll  meet  Mr.  Delaplaine  (when  he 
comes  this  evening),  oh,  so  bravely  now  !  After  all 
you've  done  for  papa  and  me,  I  should  hate  myself  if 
I  thought  there  was  the  least  shame  in  earning  my 
living  in  your  house  and  at  your  side ! " 


64  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Here  Olivia  drew  backward  from  her  aunt,  who  was 
still  seated.  She  let  a  hand  remain  on  either  of  that 
lady's  shoulders.  "  Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  with  untold 
thankfulness  in  her  breaking  voice,  "  you've  —  you've 
taken  such  a  load  from  me  !  I'll  stay  with  you  always ! 
I'll  be  Ida  Strang  —  I'll  try  very  hard  to  be  more —  I 
—  I  will,  truly  !  " 

"  Pooh  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Ottarson,  springing  from  her 
chair  and  snatching  Olivia  again  to  her  breast.  "  'S  if 
you,  my  dead  sister's  only  child,  couldn't  be  a  million 
times  more  !  I  jus'  guess  you  could  !  " 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  65 


IV. 

MR.  SPENCER  DELAPLAINE  made  his  appearance  at 
about  eight  o'clock  that  same  evening.  Olivia  was  in 
perfect  readiness  to  receive  him.  She  looked  pale  as 
she  entered  the  spacious,  uncompanionable  drawing- 
room,  which  had  the  doleful  feature  of  somehow  never 
seeming  as  if  it  were  thoroughly  lighted,  no  matter 
how  many  of  the  gas-jets  in  its  cumbrous  chandelier 
were  made  to  shoot  forth  flame  from  the  pinkish 
tulip-like  shades.  Perhaps  the  girl's  black  robe  caused 
her  to  appear  paler  than  she  really  was,  but  it  brought 
out,  at  the  same  time,  a  cameo-like  refinement  of  profile 
which  might  otherwise  have  eluded  the  more  listless 
gaze.  Mr.  Delaplaine's  gaze  did  not  show  any  listless 
sign  as  he  shook  hands  with  her,  gray  and  cold  though 
his  eye  gleamed  to  the  rather  timid  glance  that  now 
met  it. 

Olivia  had  her  opening  speech,  as  it  were,  prepared. 
She  felt  so  reassured  and  placidly  exultant  since  the 
recent  conference  with  her  aunt  that  possibly  no  real 
timidity  possessed  her ;  and  certainly  she  revealed 
none,  as  she  now  said,  sinking  into  a  chair  while  her 
visitor  reseated  himself  :  — 

"The  flowers  you  sent  this  morning  were  very 
beautiful,  Mr.  Delaplaine !  Poor  papa  always  loved 
flowers.  It  was  most  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you  to 
send  him  such  charming  ones." 

Mr.  Delaplaine  had  dropped  his  eyes  toward  the  car- 
pet. He  gave  a  little  husky  cough,  and  then  said :  — 


66  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Oh —  ah  —  yes.  I'm  glad  they  pleased  yon. 
Those  observances  help,  in  their  way,  at  such  sad 
times." 

"  Indeed  they  do  !  "  Olivia  replied,  with  an  earnest- 
ness abrupt  as  it  was  undisguised.  "I  hear  that  in 
Ne\v  York  some  people  dislike  flowers  at  funerals. 
But  I  can't  think  why.  Can  you?  " 

He  lifted  his  eyes  again,  and  drew  out  a  pair  of 
gold-rimmed  glasses,  rubbing  them  with  a  white  silk 
handkerchief  before  he  put  them  on,  and  speaking 
before  he  had  finished  this  brief  preparatory  process. 

"  Oh,  people  hate  the  humbug  that  is  so  apt  to  go 
with  the  custom." 

"The  humbug?"  repeated  Olivia,  opening  her  blue 
eyes  in  a  tender  amazement. 

"Yes.  The  crosses  and  wreaths  and  things  that 
come  from  Heaven  knows  whom,  and  are  sometimes 
almost  an  impudence,  considering  the  comparative 
strangers  who  send  them."  He  shifted  in  his  seat, 
crossed  his  legs  with  a  quick,  nervous  motion,  and 
leaned  backward  a  little.  The  glasses  that  now 
shone  above  his  aquiline  bend  of  nose  became  him  ; 
they  gave  him  a  more  senile  air,  and  yet  one  in  per- 
fect keeping  with  his  high  bald  forehead,  the  little 
bushes  of  grayish  hair  at  each  temple,  and  the  shoul- 
ders just  stooping  enough  to  show  what  a  flexible, 
martial  sort  of  figure  they  had  once  less  weakly  sur- 
mounted. "But  of  course,"  he  went  on,  "you  would 
not  be  apt  to  have  any  such  experiences,  Miss  Olivia; 
you  have  met,  naturally,  so  few  New  Yorkers." 

"And  they  try  to  get  into  the  good  graces  of  peo- 
ple by  sending  flowers  to  their  dead,"  murmured 
Olivia,  musingly.  "  Well,  if  there  were  anything 


OLIVIA   DEL  A  PLAINS.  67 

sincere  about  such  an  attempt,"  she  decided,  with 
a  gentle  little  touch  of  positiveness,  "  I  should  say 
that  it  was  a  very  human  and  even  lovely  way  of 
expressing  sympathy." 

"But  there  lay  the  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Delaplaine, 
with  a  crisp,  smileless  little  laugh.  "It  was  very 
often  quite  the  reverse  of  sincere.  Some  member  of 
a  conspicuous  Xew  York  family  died  —  of  a  family 
whose  future  kettledrums,  dinners  or  balls  certain 
energetic  strugglers  wanted  to  attend,  and  lo,  the 
most  costly  floral  emblems,  with  cards  attached, 
would  appear  on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Such 
offerings  couldn't  very  well  be  returned  to  the 
senders,  but  being  accepted,  a  kind  of  obligation 
was  accepted  with  them  ;  and  so,  in  many  instances, 
an  abusive  system  of  social  pushing  grew  out  of  the 
practice.  Then  somebody  set  the  fashion  of  append- 
ing to  the  death-notices  in  newspapers  —  'It  is  par- 
ticularly requested  that  no  flowers  be  sent.'  This 
kind  of  a  thing  was  of  course  a  clincher.  It  effect- 
ually headed  off  the  wariest  tacticians.  And  then 
came  the  droll  part  of  the  innovation." 

"  The  droll  part !  "  echoed  Olivia,  in  sad  surprise. 

"Yes;  everything  .has  its  funny  side,  you  know.  I 
recall  several  cases  in  which  that  little  addendum  was 
made  to  the  death-notice  of  relatives  where  very  few 
flowers  would  have  been  sent  by  anybody  under  any 
circumstances  ;  and  yet  there  it  was,  staring  you  in 
the  face,  just  the  same.  They  thought  it  the  right 
thing  to  do,  and  they  did  it.  They  wanted  the  inter- 
ment to  be  comme  il  faut.  After  all,  there's  only  a 
slight  step  from  wishing  to  live  that  way  and  to  be 
put  into  the  grave  so." 


68  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

The  cynic  undercurrent  in  these  words  hurt  Olivia. 
"  There's  only  the  difference  between  life  and  death ! " 
she  said.  "  And  that  is  such  a  wide  one." 

"  It  must  be  to  you,  at  your  age." 

"I  believe  it  is  to  everybody!"  she  affirmed  most 
seriously. 

"Ah,  that's  because  you're  still  young.  You 
wouldn't  be  young  and  in  good  health  if  you  didn't 
cling  to  life." 

Olivia  made  a  negative  gesture.  "  I  have  seen  old 
people  who  clung  to  life,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Delaplaine  smiled.  "You  mean  they  were 
afraid,"  he  answered,  with  a  languid  mutter. 

"Awed,  perhaps,"  she  said,  as  if  half  assenting. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  same  thing.  They  call  it  awe,  but  it's 
only  fear.  And  fear  takes  many  forms.  Religion  is 
often'  one  of  them."  He  laughed  his  low  yet  sharp 
laugh  again,  which  was  not  unlike  the  faint  tinkle 
wrought  by  meeting  metals. 

"Not  the  right  sort  of  religion  !  "  exclaimed  Olivia. 

o  o 

"  The  right  sort  ?  My  dear  Miss  Olivia,  who  that  is 
devout  does  not  feel  sure  he  possesses  that  ?  It's  an 
affair  o,f  temperament  and  sentiment.  I'm  not  quar- 
relling with  it  wherever  it  exists.  I  should  as  soon 
think  of  quarrelling  with  the  mercury  in  a  thermom- 
eter." He  began  to  smooth  one  of  his  knees  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand,  whose  pink  well-tended  nails  the 
light  struck,  giving  out  from  them  dim,  pearly  flashes. 
Everything  about  his  person  bespoke  the  most  careful 
nicety;  his  evening  dress  was  the  perfection  of  sub- 
dued taste;  his  linen  was  spotless;  he  wore  but  one 
ring,  with  an  antique  stone  set  in  it,  of  far  more  value 
than  it  looked.  "I  take  things  as  I  find  them,"  he 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  69 

continued  placidly,  "  and  I  find  them  best  to  endure 
when  they  are  taken  that  way."  His  composed  face 
underwent  a  slight  change  of  expression,  now  ;  the 
furtive  blending  of  fatigue  and  satire  seemed  to  die 
from  it  and  leave  a  deepened  gravity  behind.  "I  al- 
ways did  that  with  your  poor  father.  But  I  grant, 
now,  that  it  might  have  been  wiser  if  I  had  spoken 
more  plainly  and  harshly  to  him  when  he  was  so  care- 
lessly shutting  his  eyes  to  your  future.  .  .  .  You 
Bee,  I  assume  that  your  aunts  have  made  a  certain 
state  of  affairs  more  or  less  clear  to  you." 

Olivia  had  dropped  her  head  during  these  last  two 
or  three  sentences.  But  she  raised  it  as  the  speaker's 
collected  voice  died  away. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  direct  glance  straight 
at  her  companion.  "  They  have  told  me  that  I 
have  nothing  —  that  all  has  gone  during  papa's  life- 
time." 

He  nodded  slowly  and  confirmingly  while  she 
watched  him.  "  Yes  —  that  is  but  too  true.  I  sup- 
pose it  shocked  you.  But  you  seem  to  have  borne  it 
with  philosophy.  I  feared  you  would  not.  I'm  glad 
to  see  that  you  do." 

She  had  astonished  him,  but  he  was  not  one  to  let 
her  perceive  that.  He  sat  observing  her  with  much 
intentness,  now ;  she  could  not  see  how  keen  his 
gray  eyes  were  behind  the  lucid  but  obscuring  lenses 
they  'wore. 

"It  has  been  a  great  blow  for  me,"  she  replied, 
tremors  coming  into  her  voice  but  no  hint  of  tears 
ensuing.  "  I'm  not  over  it  yet ;  I  shall  feel  it  for 
many  a  long  day.  And  why  should  I  not  ?  It  alters 
my  whole  life ;  it  changes  me  from  an  independent 


70  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

being  to  an  enslaved  one.     For  poverty  is  slavery  — 
I'm  quite  old  enough  to  have  learned  that." 

"  You're  right,"  he  said  ;  "  and  there's  no  slavery 
so  bitter  as  that  which  has  once  tasted  freedom.  .  .  . 
I  used  rather  direct  speech  to  your  father.  Twice  I 
went  over  and  saw  him  in  Paris  while  you  were  at 
your  boarding-school.  Each  time  I  went  prepared 
for  an  altercation,  and  each  time  he  welcomed  me 
so  cordially  and  made  me  have  such  an  agreeable 
sojourn  in  the  enchanting  city  that  I  sailed  home 
again  feeling  as  if  I'd  left  something  behind  me ;  I 
suppose  it  was  my  scolding.  Still,  he  heard  from  me 
expressions  of  opinion  regarding  which  he  couldn't 
have  been  greatly  in  doubt.  But  they  never  made 
any  difference  with  him.  Of  course  he  could  not 
have  gone  on  borrowing  much  longer  ..." 

"And  he  borrowed  a  great  deal,  did  he  not?"  the 
girl  broke  in  here,  with  her  cheeks  turning  paler. 
Debt  seemed  to  her  something  so  onerous,  danger- 
ous, disgraceful. 

"No;  only  a  few  thousands.  I  think  there  are 
outstanding  sums  that  will  cover  the  whole  liability 
when  his  affairs  are  finally  settled." 

"Oh,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that!"  declared  Olivia, 
a  bloom  stealing  back  to  her  cheeks.  The  rich  liquid 
sparkle  that  secret  excitement  had  lent  her  blue  eyes 
contrasted  captivatingly  with  this  damask  tint;  cer- 
tain evenings  in  spring,  when  the  first  glitter  of  stars 
tremulously  begins  above  the  rose-hued  west,  with 
fresh  winds  fragrant  from  new  leaves  and  grasses, 
bear  a  lovely  mystic  analogy,  in  light  and  color,  to 
just  such  pure  young  faces  as  Olivia's  now  appeared. 
"  She's  a  wonderfully  sweet-looking  creature,"  Spencer 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  71 

Delaplaine  said  to  his  own  thoughts.  "  I  have  always 
held  her  to  be  so,  but  just  now  I  feel  more  certain  of 
it  than  ever." 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said  aloud,  "don't  bother 
yourself  about  any  indebtedness.  Of  course  I  made 
my  loans  with  my  eyes  open  ..." 

"  But  that  is  no  excuse  for  me,"  struck  in  Olivia. 
"  No  excuse  whatever." 

"No  excuse?"  he  repeated,  leaning  foward  in  his 
chair  and  playing  with  the  slim  gold  cord  of  his  eye- 
glasses. "I  don't  understand." 

"  The  debt,  I  mean,  is  the  same,  if  any  should  re- 
main, after  his  affairs  —  as  you  yourself  have  put  it 
• — are  finally  settled." 

"The  debt  is  the  same?"  he  once  more  repeated, 
and  with  undisguised  bewilderment. 

"  Yes,  I  mean,  it  will  be  my  debt.  At  least,  I  shall 
look  on  it  so.  I  suppose  the  law  would  not,  but  that 
will  be  of  no  consequence  to  me.  Whatever  it  turns 
out  that  papa  owed  you  I  shall  continue  to  owe 
you." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  again.     He  was  smiling, 

O  O' 

and  the  lines  made  by  his  lips  at  this  moment  had  for 
Olivia  an  effect  almost  sardonically  cruel. 

"  You !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  !  Delightful !  " 
The  girl  felt  herself  crimsoning  with  annoyance. 
At  the  same  time  her  spirit  rose.  "Ah,"  she  softly 
cried,  with  a  ring  of  rebuke  in  her  tones  that  was 
womanlike  enough  to  make,  for  at  least  that  brief 
interval,  her  tender  age  seem  incredible,  "I  cannot 
allow  you,  sir,  to  receive  in  sarcasm  what  I  advance 
very  seriously.  If  I  am  poor  now  I  may  not  always 
be.  To  recognize  the  debt  will  not,  I  am  well  aware, 


72  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

be  to  discharge  it.  But  I  intend  to  discharge  it  if  I 
can ;  I  shall  always  bear  in  mind  that  I  —  I  have  in- 
herited it." 

He  had  ceased  to  smile.  He  had  begun  to  rock  the 
uppermost  of  his  crossed  legs  in  a  deliberate  manner 
that  implied  both  diversion  and  condescension  for  the 
alert  sensibilities  of  her  who  watched  him.  And  his 
next  words  caused  her  to  start  and  bite  her  lips,  they 
so  humiliutingly  confirmed  her  expectations. 

"  Do  you  know,  you  simply  fascinate  me  by  your 
originality  —  your  naturalness?  That  is  rather  a 
strong  bit  of  enthusiasm  for  me,  my  dear  Miss 
Olivia.  I  usually  deal  in  the  sober  grays  both  of 
statement  and  emotion.  I've  never  had  many  enthu- 
siasms in  my  life  —  don't  look  indignant  at  me  be- 
cause I  haven't.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  must  have 
been  born  on  a  foggy  morning,  when  there  was  a  raw, 
lazy  east  wind  that  didn't  promise  the  slightest  ray  of 
sun  for  certainly  twenty-four  hours.  But  I'm  not  so 
benighted  that  I  can't  appreciate  intensity  in  others. 
I  said  you  were  original,  and  I  meant  it.  You're  just 
the  sort  of  daughter  your  father  might  have  had  ;  he 
was  original  in  many  ways ;  I  remember  once  telling 
him  that  he  was  a  free-thinking  nonconformist  in  a 
shell  of  conventionalism.  He  frowned  and  didn't  like 
it ;  so  few  of  us  like  to  hear  anything  that  approaches 
being  the  real  truth  about  ourselves.  I've  no  doubt 
you  will  resent  being  told  that  you  amuse  me  exceed- 
ingly. You  can't  see  why  you  should.  Of  course  you 
can't.  If  you  did,  my  poor  young  lady,  you  wouldn't 
be  half  as  amusing  as  you  are.  .  .  .  You  assert  can- 
didly and  innocently  that  you  have  inherited  your 
father's  debt  to  me,  whatever  may  prove  its  amount. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  73 

And  you  make  this  assertion  only  a  very  short  time 
after  learning  that  you  have  not  a  dollar  in  the  world. 
Your  confidence  in  the  possibilities  of  your  own  opu- 
lent future  is  what  so  particularly  charms  me.  It  has 
the  very  dew  of  maidenhood  upon  it,  if  you'll  pardon 
such  a  poetic  burst  from  an  old  fellow  as  steeped  in 
cold  prose  as  I  am.  Some  day,  thirty  or  forty  years 
from  now  —  when  you  are  steeped  in  cold  prose,  too 
—  you'll  be  able  to  comprehend  all  this  much  better 
than  now." 

Two  bright  spots  were  burning  in  Olivia's  cheeks  as 
he  ended,  but  otherwise  she  bore  herself  calmly. 
"You  turn  what  I  have  said  into  quiet  ridicule, 
Mr.  Delaplaine,"  she  responded.  "  It  may  seem  to 
you  very  entertaining;  it  is  to  me  without  the  flavor 
of  comedy  you  detect  in  it.  But  I  am  not  quite  so 
helpless,  even  now,  as  you  judge  me.  I  have  a  kind 
friend  in  my  aunt  Thyrza,  Mrs.  Ottarson  —  indeed  an 
invaluable  friend.  I  am  going  to  begin  at  once  earn- 
ing my  own  living  with  her." 

"  Good  heavens,  my  dear  child  !  You  can't  mean 
that  you  are  going  into  that  boarding-house  they  say 
she  keeps  !  And  what  on  earth  do  you  propose  doing 
there  ?  " 

"Getting  honest  employment." 

He  took  off  his  glasses  again  and  began  to  polish 
them  ruminatively.  "  Did  the  ...  er  ...  the  lady 
herself  propose  this  to  you?" 

"  I  induced  her  to  propose  it." 

"  Ah  .  .  .  indeed  ?  And  you  intend  to  be  a  sort  of 
upper  servant  there  ?  Is  that  the  idea?" 

"  I  should  say  it  was.  Except  that  Aunt  Thyrza  is 
so  fond  of  me  as  probably  to  become  the  most  indul- 


74  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

gent  of  mistresses.  But  I  sha'n't  let  her  indulge  me 
too  much  ;  I  shall  constantly  oppose  that." 

"But  your  other  aunts  .  .  .  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  ?  They  assure  me  they  are  will- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"  To  support  me  ?  I  have  so  understood.  It  is 
very  kind  of  them.  But  I  prefer  to  support  my- 
self." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mr.  Delaplaine  readjusted  his 
glasses  above  the  somewhat  severe  curve  of  his  nose. 
"You  say  that  Mrs.  Ottarson  is  your  dear  friend. 
She  has  undoubtedly  nursed  your  father  in  a  very 
capable  way.  I  surmise  that  she  must  have  made  a 
most  comforting  associate  for  you  in  the  sick-room, 
and  your  having  become  fond  of  her  is  not  at  all 
remarkable.  But,  my  child,  to  go  and  live  with  her  is 
quite  a  different  thing.  It  is  worse  than  burying 
yourself  alive ;  for  to  bury  oneself  suggests  at  least 
silence,  and  you  will  have  about  you,  instead  of 
silence,  a  clatter  of  vulgarity  which  the  American 
boarding-house  can  alone  perpetrate." 

"Very  possibly  I  shall.  But  I  shall  be  busy.  You 
mind  little  troubles — petites  mis&res  like  that  —  so 
much  less  when  you  are  busy." 

She  saw  the  icy  smile  edge  his  lips  as  he  replied 
loiteringly:  "What  shall  you  do?  Darn  towels? 
Dole  forth  the  tea  and  sugar?  Keep  the  mice  out 
of  the  strawberry  jam  ?  Haggle  with  the  grocer  and 
battle  with  the  butcher?  You  were  simply  not 
brought  up  for  such  a  life,  and  you  may  as  well  real- 
ize it  now  as  a  year  from  now  —  when  retraction  is 
too  late." 

"  Retraction  ?  "  said  Olivia,  lifting  her  brows.    "  You 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  75 

refer  to  my  seeking  the  Auchincloss  or  Satterthwaite 
protection,  after  all."  A  dolorous  little  laugh  fell 
from  her,  at  this  point.  "  There  must  be  a  good  deal 
of  haggling  with  the  grocer  and  battling  with  the 
butcher  before  I  do  so." 

"You  don't  like  those  ladies,  then?" 

"  I  don't  like  the  plan  of  living  with  them ! " 

"  It  is  not  unusual  in  New  York  for  people  to  try 
rather  hard  to  cross  their  thresholds.  How  have  they 
displeased  you?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  hope  that  we  shall  always  be  bonnes 
connaissances,  but  .  .  ." 

"My  dear,  don't  for  an  instant  imagine  that  you 
will  be,"  interrupted  Mr.  Delaplaine,  lifting  both 
hands  for  an  instant  and  then  letting  them  fall,  "  pro- 
vided you  sink  so  low  as  to  live  with  that  dreadful 
Mrs.  Ottarson." 

Olivia's  eyes  flashed.  "You  presume  to  tell  me  it 
is  sinking  low  !  "  she  began.  "  Now  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  hear  me  tell  you  —  " 

"Nothing  rude,  I  hope?"  he  again  broke  in.  He 
was  tranquillity  itself ;  he  could  no  more  have  become 
angry  with  her  than  with  a  June  rose,  bending  and 
swaying  in  the  wind,  because  one  of  its  tiny  thorns 
had  made  a  spiteful  lunge  at  his  flesh.  "  I  don't 
deserve  to  have  you  call  me  names,  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  My  dear  young  lady,  I  don't  presume  to 
tell  you  it  is  sinking  low,  or  that  Mrs.  Ottarson  is  a 
dreadful  person.  I  was  merely  making  an  imaginary 
quotation,  as  it  were.  I  am  positive  that  this  is  just 
what  your  aunts  would  say.  Of  course  it  is  no  con- 
cern of  mine,  except  in  so  far  as  you  are  the  child 
of  an  old  friend." 


76  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  misunderstood  you,"  said  Olivia, 
softening.  "I  know  that  Aunt  Letitia  and  Aunt 
Augusta  hold  Mrs.  Ottarson  in  great  disfavor.  She 
doesn't  outwardly  meet  their  approval,  and  so  they 
never  stop  to  consider  what  a  heart  of  gold  she  has." 

"  Oh,  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  admit  that  it's  a  heart 
of  gold,"  he  briskly  returned.  He  had  set  himself  to 
beating  a  little  tattoo  with  the  finger-tips  of  one  hand 
on  the  marble-topped  table  near  which  he  sat.  "But 
hearts  of  gold  have  the  misfortune  to  be  invisible." 

"Hers  is  not  —  at  least  not  to  me.  I  have  seen  it 
more  than  once  for  weeks  past.  She  has  shown  it  to 
me." 

"Ah,  Miss  Olivia,  are  you  entirely  sure  that  it's 
eighteen  carat  ?  Pardon  my  atrocious  flippancy.  I 
sha'n't  dare  to  go  on  if  you  wither  me  with  another  of 
those  indignant  looks  that  you  gave  me  a  little  while 
ago.  And  you  ought  to  be  merciful;  you  ought  to 
recollect  how  time  has  withered  me  already." 

The  banter  in  his  voice  was  mockery  itself  to  his 
listener;  yet  she  felt  it  to  be  so  discriminated,  so 
modified,  that  her  resentment  of  it  could  only  make 
her  appear  ridiculous. 

"  Candidly,"  she  said,  "  I  would  rather  you  would 
not  go  on,  Mr.  Delaplaine  —  in  the  strain  you  have 
adopted." 

She  saw  his  gray  eyebrows  elevate  themselves  over 
his  luminous  glasses.  "Bless  me!  what  strain ?  I've 
been  admiring  your  championship  of  somebody  you're 
fond  of.  I'm  a  good  deal  afraid  of  you  when  you 
look  so  tempestuous,  but  that  doesn't  prevent  me 
from  admiring  you,  all  the  same.  We're  very  apt  to 
be  impressed  that  way  by  performances  we're  incapa- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  77 

ble  of  ourselves.  I  don't  believe  I've  ever  been  so 
honestly  angry  as  you  just  were,  in  all  my  life.  I 
may  have  scowled  and  wanted  to  strike  somebody ; 
that's  only  the  common,  coarse  style  of  procedure, 
with  the  raw  Adam  in  it,  the  selfish  personal  thrill  of 
retaliation.  But  your  anger  had  a  nice  little  touch  of 
sublimity.  If  my  nerves  were  a  trifle  stronger  I 
should  be  tempted  to  beg  that  you  would  do  it  again  ; 
for,  upon  my  word,  it's  deucedly — I  should  say  mag- 
nificently becoming ! " 

All  this  was  delivered  with  so  much  measured, 
inscrutable  repose  of  utterance  that  Olivia  lost  power 
to  judge  whether  it  were  really  meant  for  satire  or 
sincerity.  But  if  the  latter,  it  stung  her  none  the  less 
keenly. 

"  It  appears,"  she  said,  with  the  bitterness  of  uncon- 
cealed reproach,  "  that  I  must  come  back  to  my  own 
country  and  undergo  a  great  misfortune  here,  only  to 
discover  how  lightly  my  unhappiness  is  looked  upon. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  you  wish  to  jest  with  me  or 
no."  And  now  she  rose,  standing  placid  and  sorrow- 
ful,  in  the  large,  cheerless  room.  "But  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  do  wish  to  jest.  This  may  be  no  more 
than  your  habitual  mode  of  treating  every  subject  in 
life,  petty  or  the  opposite.  But  it  is  not  my  mode, 
and  this  evening,  of  all  others,  I  am  averse  to  playing 
a  part  with  which  I  have  no  sympathy.  .  .  .  Thei-e- 
fore  you  must  excuse  me  for  saying  that  I  would 
rather  not  remain  here  with  you  any  longer.  Let  us 
talk  together,  if  you  will,  at  some  other  time.  You 
know  what  this  day  has  been  to  me.  ...  As  for  the 
course  I  shall  take  hereafter,  I  think  I  have  fully 
explained  that.  I  love  Aunt  Thyrza  dearly,  and  I 


78  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

am  going  to  live  with  her  —  you  know  on  what 
terras." 

He  had  risen  by  the  time  that  she  finished  speaking. 
"  So,  I  am  dismissed,"  he  said  grimly. 

She  gave  a  slight  smile,  inclining  her  head  with  a 
grace  that  she  did  not  dream  of.  "  Only  for  to-night. 
I  am  tired  —  distraite,  if  you  will.  I  ..." 

He  took  several  steps  toward  her.  As  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  face  she  discerned  a  new  look  upon  it. 
His  glasses  dropped,  and  he  caught  them  by  their 
thin  chain,  swaying  them  to  and  fro  while  he  now 
spoke. 

"  Olivia,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you're  not  too  tired  for 
one  thing." 

She  stared  at  him  questioningly,  and  he  drew  still 
nearer. 

"Well?"  she  queried. 

If  he  had  been  some  one  else  she  might  have  con- 
cluded that  he  was  embarrassed  ;  but  embarrassment 
and  he  had  no  appreciable  relations  in  the  conception 
she  had  thus  far  formed  of  him. 

"There's  a  means  of  saving  yourself  from  stooping 
like  this,"  he  began.  He  still  swung  his  glasses,  and 
he  glanced  down  at  them  fitfully  while  he  continued 
to  address  her,  scanning  her  face  for  an  instant  and 
then  averting  his  gaze.  "  For  it  is  stooping,  and 
you'll  be  horribly  sorry  you  did  it.  As  for  the  means 
I  mentioned  —  it's  here;  it's  I,  myself.  I  offer  it." 

She  had  not  the  faintest  perception  of  his  true 
meaning.  "Thanks,  no,"  she  said.  "You  are  kind 
to  propose  it.  Please  don't  think  me  ungrateful. 
But  I  can't  accept.  I  should  be  miserable  if  I 
did." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  79 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  he  replied,  looking  at 
her  very  steadily. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.     It's  to  be  your  protegee,  your  —  " 

"Not  at  all,  if  you  please.  .  .  .  Olivia,  it's  to  be 
something  much  —  much  nearer  than  that."  He  took 
her  hand,  and  she  let  him  take  it.  She  still  had  no 
idea  what  he  meant.  Her  girlish  thoughts  had  al- 
ready swiftly  shaped  the  question  —  "  What  can  I  be 
nearer  to  him  than  his  protegee  —  than  the  daughter 
of  his  old  partner,  adopted  by  him?" 

He  still  held  her  hand,  fondling  it.  This  revelation 
of  tenderness  in  him  was  quite  unforeseen  to  her ;  she 
had  a  qualm  of  self-rebuke  for  having  pronounced  him 
so  thoroughly  mundane  and  hardened. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  smiling.  "  You  mean  that 
I  shall  take  in  your  household  some  such  place  as  that 
which  I  have  agreed  to  take  in  Aunt  Thyrza's !  " 

He  clasped  her  hand  still  tighter.  "  That  isn't  at 
all  my  meaning,"  he  said. 

"No?"  she  murmured,  wonderingly.  What  could 
it  be,  then,  if  it  was  not  that  ?  He  evidently  wished 
to  help  her ;  it  was  unmistakable  that  he  so  wished. 
His  eyes  had  almost  an  amiable  light  in  their  greenish- 
gray  pupils ;  that  indolent,  derisive  method  of  speak- 
ing had  left  him  —  that  suggestion  of  being  a  person 
who  treated  life,  death  and  the  human  soul  as  if  they 
were  a  compound,  yet  forceless  joke,  a  trinity  of  triv- 
iality. 

"  No,"  he  said,  seeming  to  echo  her  own  monosyl- 
lable, while  he  watched  the  sweet,  bold  interrogation 
in  her  guileless  eyes.  "  That  is  not  my  meaning. 
Can't  you  guess  what  it  is?"  His  tones  had  become 
almost  musical ;  they  were  so  unlike  those  in  which  he 


80  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

was  wont  to  speak,  that  for  an  instant  the  odd  fancy 
crossed  her  as  to  the  possibility  of  his  having  employed 
some  whimsical  trick  of  elocution.  "  Try  to  guess," 
he  went  on.  "  Try." 

"But  I  have  tried,"  she  returned,  shaking  her  head 
hopelessly. 

"  Try  again,"  he  persisted. 

"Is  he  really  making  sport  of  me?"  Olivia  asked 
herself.  The  child  is  never  quite  dead,  in  a  girl  of 
her  years,  and  for  a  little  interval  she  was  beset  by 
that  displeasure  a  child  will  feel  when  suspecting  the 
presence  of  raillery  in  others.  But  no,  she  soon  con- 
cluded ;  such  a  supposition  was  unjust;  and  then, 
almost  immediately,  she  exclaimed  :  — 

"I  really  am  not  equal  to  anymore  guessing,  Mr. 
Delaplaine.  You  say  that  you  would  like  me  to  be 
nearer  than  your  protegee,  and  yet  that  you  are  not 
asking  me  to  take  any  salaried  position.  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  it's  a  salaried  position,  in  its  way.  There's  a 
very  handsome  allowance  attached  to  it.  I  shouldn't 
dream  of  supposing  you'd  take  it,  my  dear,  except  for 
that  saving  clause,  as  it  were.  ...  I  see  that  I  shall 
have  to  blurt  the  truth  right  out.  But  it's  wofully 
discouraging.  .  .  ." 

"  What  is  discouraging  ?  "  asked  Olivia.  She  looked 
alarmed,  now ;  perhaps  the  first  ray  of  real  divination 
was  entering  her  mind. 

"That  you  should  not  guess  without  my  telling 
you,"  he  said.  .  .  .  And  here  he  sought  to  retain  her 
hand,  while  she  made  a  little  effort  to  draw  it  away. 
After  that  effort  she  let  him  keep  it.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  doubt  and  her  brow  had  clouded.  She  was 
not  at  all  sure,  yet ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  each 
fresh  minute  rendered  her  more  sure. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  81 

"How  should  this  be  discouraging?"  she  faltered. 

"  It  makes  me  fear  that  you've  no  conception  of  me 
in  the  character  I'd  like  to  assume  ...  as  your  hus- 
band, I  mean,  Olivia." 

She  snatched  her  hand  away  from  him  then,  recoil- 
ing several  paces. 

"  My  husband  — you  ! " 

The  words  broke  from  her  unawares.  In  another 
second  she  had  regretted  them,  but  it  was  too  late  for 
her  to  dispel  the  effect  of  repulsion,  even  of  repug- 
nance, which  they  must  have  produced. 

"Am  I  so  horribly  old?"  he  asked.  "A  little  past 
sixty  ?  Is  that  so  very  old  ?  It  seems  Methuselah- 
like  to  you,  I  don't  doubt,  because  you  are  so  young." 

Olivia  had  drooped  her  head  ;  her  cheeks  were  burn- 
ing so  that  they  gave  her  actual  pain.  "You  must 
forgive  me,"  she  stammered,  "  if  —  if  I  seemed  to 
show  you  that  I  —  I  thought  you  were  too  — too  old. 
It  has  taken  me  greatly  by  surprise.  I  —  I  was  com- 
pletely unprepared  for  it." 

A  little  silence  followed.  To  the  girl  it  was  truly 
agonizing.  In  all  her  life  she  had  never  known  such 
crucial  embarrassment  as  now.  Spencer  Delaplaine  in 
a  trice,  as  it  were,  had  roused  her  pity  where  before 
he  had  evoked  merely  her  tepid  and  indifferent  dis- 
taste. He  had  in  a  manner  bored  her ;  he  now 
promptly  became  interesting.  It  must  be  so  frightful, 
Olivia  had  hurriedly  told  herself,  to  want  to  marry 
any  one,  and  waken  the  mildly  horrified  sensations  he 
had  just  wakened  in  her,  simply  because  you  asked  the 
matrimonial  question. 

"Please  do  not  think  this  proposal  of  mine,"  she 
heard  him  say,  "the  result  of  any  suddenly-formed 


82  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

resolve.  It  is  very  remote  from  being  so,  I  assure 
you.  Ever  since  you  came  back  for  the  last  time  — 
and  that  is  months  ago  —  I  have  been  sensible  of  a 
...  a  deepening  attachment.  This  sort  of  visitation 
comes  to  only  a  few  men  as  late  in  life  as  it  has  come 
to  me.  I  had  reached  an  age  when  I  was  justified  in 
expecting  that  it  would  never  come.  What  mortal 
can  have  lived  as  long  as  I  have  lived  without  more 
than  one  so-called  affair  of  the  heart  ?  But  I  speak  as 
white  truth,  Olivia,  as  was  ever  spoken  by  human  lips, 
Avhen  I  affirm  that  you  are  the  first  woman  I  ever  saw 
whom  I  longed  to  make  my  wife." 

She  raised  her  head  and  showed  what  seemed  to 
herself  her  blazing  face.  But  it  was  only  a  face  dyed 
with  a  brilliance  excitement  had  lit  there,  and  fairer 
now  to  him  who  saw  it  (fair  as  he  had  already  silently 
estimated  it)  than  it  had  ever  glowed  before. 

"  You  have  paid  me  an  honor,"  she  said,  catching 
her  breath,  and  putting  one  hand  clingingly  just  above 
her  bosom,  as  women  will  do  when  they  are  in  straits 
of  agitation.  "I  thank  you  for  the  honor.  It  springs, 
I  am  sure,  from  the  warmest  generosity.  I  —  I  shall 
never  forget  it  —  I  shall  never  forget  that  you  gave 
me  the  privilege  of  declining  it." 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  with  an  imperious  rigor  in  his  voice 
that  made  her  start  back  from  him  alarmedly  — 
"  there's  not  a  trace  of  generosity  about  my  conduct !  " 
He  appeared  to  marvel,  a  second  later,  at  his  own 
betrayal  of  something  so  intimately  similar  to  passion  ; 
he  stood  with  a  kind  of  self-astonished  look  in  his 
eyes  and  with  a  hand  pressed  against  one  temple,  as 
though  he  were  asking  himself  in  his  own  worldly- 
wise  vernacular  what  the  devil  he  meant  by  such 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  83 

queer  behavior.  And  when  next  he  spoke  it  was  with 
all  his  old  control. 

"  I  had  but  one  motive,"  he  said,  "  in  asking  you  to 
be  my  wife.  I'm  fond  of  you.  I  love  you.  I  want 
to  marry  you  for  that  reason,  and  for  none  other  in 
the  world." 

Olivia  clasped  both  hands  together  as  she  stood 
facing  him.  "I  don't  love  you!"  she  exclaimed, 
using  the  naked  fact  because  her  poor  disturbed  wits 
could  just  then  seize  upon  no  other.  "  I  don't  love 
you,  and  I  never  could." 

"I'm  perfectly  aware  of  that,"  he  began,  seeming 
to  present  himself  before  her,  as  the  words  fell  from 
him,  in  precisely  the  same  attitude  of  well-bred 
aplomb  by  which  she  had  long  since  measured  his 
individuality.  "  I  don't  expect  you  to  love  me.  I'm 
not  such  a  fool.  But  I  —  " 

Here  Olivia  stopped  him,  with  both  uplifted  hands. 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  beseechingly  and  yet  forbid- 
dingly. 

Then  a  new  thought  appeared  to  strike  her.  But 
as  it  did  so  she  plainly  shuddered ;  and  then,  as  if 
feeling  that  she  had  been  rudely  merciless  in  thus 
betraying  aversion,  she  stretched  forth  one  hand  to 
him. 

Instantly  afterward,  however,  she  withdrew  her 
hand.  He  had  meanwhile  advanced  toward  her  as  if 
to  clasp  it.  ... 

With  precipitation,  and  with  the  sound  of  a  re- 
pressed sob,  she  now  turned  from  him,  hurrying  to  the 
doorway  and  leaving  him  alone  in  the  solemn,  dull, 
ugly  drawing-room. 

He  did  not  quit  the  house  for  some  little  time  after 


84  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

that.  He  had  folded  his  arms  and  was  staring  down 
at  the  uncouth  scroll-work  of  the  carpet.  .  .  .  But  at 
last  he  roused  himself  and  went  downstairs  to  the 
lower  hall,  where  he  had  left  his  hat  and  coat. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  85 


V. 

OLIVIA  heard  the  front  door  clang  as  she  stood  in 
one  of  the  upper  rooms  beside  Mrs.  Ottarson. 

"  There  —  he's  gone !  "  she  said. 

"  'Livia,  you  look  so  scared  an'  funny !  "  exclaimed 
her  aunt.  "For  mercy's  sake,  what  did  happen  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Olivia.  And  with  a  burst  of 
real  hysterical  laughter  and  a  preliminary  gasp  or  two, 
she  began  the  narrative.  .  .  . 

Spencer  Delaplaine  walked  quietly  up-town  from 
Washington  Square.  His  gouty  ailment  had  not 
discommoded  him  quite  so  much  as  usual,  of  late. 
Otherwise  his  health  was  nearly  as  good  at  a  little 
past  sixty  as  it  had  been  all  those  years  ago,  when  he 
stood  beside  his  friend  Houston  Van  Rensselaer  in  the 
little  Macdougal  Street  house  and  saw  him  commit  the 
absolutely  tragical  faux  pas  of  marrying  Rosalie  Jenks. 
Delaplaine  had  always  lived  well,  but  with  discretion. 
He  used  to  say  that  if  it  were  true  every  man  at  the 
age  of  forty  was  either  a  fool  or  his  own  physician, 
then  he  intended  to  take  enough  care  of  himself  to  . 
prove  an  exceptional  case :  he  would  not  be  a  fool, 
and  he  would  be  much  too  healthy  for  the  need  of  his 
own  medical  services.  Excess  was  not  so  distasteful 
to  him  as  that  the  fine  clarity  of  his  common-sense 
forever  taught  him  its  peril.  If  he  had  been  less 
selfish  he  might  have  ended  disasti'ously  as  a  drunkard, 
or  met  some  like  fate,  born  of  his  own  trespassing 


86  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

indulgences ;  for  he  had  many  traits  belonging  to  the 
confirmed  voluptuary,  yet  did  not  possess  the  head- 
long and  improvident  ones  too  often  uppermost  in 
such  a  nature.  The  evil  jvas  with  Delaplaine  never 
sufficient  for  the  day  in  such  matters ;  he  could  not 
rid  himself  of  the  to-morrow,  with  its  attendant  pros- 
tration, inertia,  penance.  He  had  serenely  calculated 
that  just  so  much  pleasure  of  a  certain  physical  kind 
would  be  safe  for  him,  and  no  more.  Prudence  reared 
her  defensive  paling  at  this  boundary,  and  he  never 
passed  beyond  it.  The  world  accepted  his  reluctance 
as  excellent  decorum ;  it  was  in  reality  one  of  those 
valiant  exhibitions  of  egotism  which  are  lucky  enough 
to  lie  within  strict  conventional  limits. 

He  had  always  been  an  inordinately  selfish  man, 
and  he  had  contrived  never  to  let  his  selfishness  tran- 
spire. Long  ago  he  would  have  broken  all  connection 
with  Houston  Van  Rensselaer  if  it  would  have  repaid 
him  to  do  so.  But  there  was  a  magic  of  caste  about 
"Delaplaine  and  Van  Rensselaer"  which  mere  "De- 
laplaine and  Company "  would  never  have  been  able 
to  preserve.  His  own  people,  the  Delaplaines,  were 
all  dead  now,  except  a  few  cousins,  whom  he  ignored 
as  tiresome,  and  not  of  the  class  to  which  he  belonged. 
He  secretly  laughed  at  there  being  any  such  class 
whatever  in  a  republic  whose  very  existence  was  a 
protest  against  all  aristocratic  principles.  But  what 
did  he  care  for  the  inconsistencies  and  self-contradic- 
tions of  the  foolish  throngs  about  him?  His  object 
was  to  ride  securely  on  the  topmost  crest  of  the  wave, 
success.  He  could  not  understand  how  any  rational 
being  could  endorse  any  other  system  of  philosophy. 
But  he  was  by  no  means  a  shallow  and  uureflective 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  87 

egotist ;  false,  and  indeed  disrespectful,  judgment  of 
his  aims  and  tenets  would  spring  from  such  a  belief 
regarding  him.  He  had  not  only  studied  men  thor- 
oughly, and  pronounced  them  for  the  most  part  fools, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  intellectual  zealots  and  enthusi- 
asts; lie  had  also  studied  books,  guided  by  an  early 
education,  fairly  complete  when  we  consider  that  he 
had  been  graduated  from  such  an  institution  as  was 
Columbia  College  nearly  a  half  century  ago.  A  mem- 
ber of  fashionable  clubs,  a  diner-out,  a  conceded  sup- 
porter of  social  dignities  and  formalities,  he  had 
nevertheless  found  not  a  little  leisure  —  through  entire 
freedom  from  those  vices  that  give  the  jaded  palate, 
the  fatigued  brain,  or  the  rebuking  digestion  — to  read 
with  zest,  lucidity  and  mental  satisfaction.  He  had 
followed  most  carefully  what  is  called  the  modern 
movement  in  thought.  He  had  marked  many  a  pas- 
sage in  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer's  great  series  of  works ; 
he  had  become  so  interested  in  the  purely  mathemati- 
cal portion  of  the  "  Psychology  "  that  he  had  set  him- 
self to  the  study  of  higher  mathematics  in  order  that 
no  page  of  this  wonderful  work  should  remain  dark  to 
him.  He  delighted  in  the  hypothesis  of  Darwin  and 
its  powerfully  convincing  deductions ;  he  had  no  more 
doubt  that  the  intelligent  ape  was  our  primeval  parent 
than  he  had  assurance  as  to' the  mythic  origin  of  Adnm 
and  Eve.  He  took  regularly,  and  perused  searchingly, 
the  Popular  Science  Monthly,  and  kept  wary  watch, 
as  well,  upon  the  English  Nineteenth  Century  and 
Fortnightly  Review.  He  prided  himself  upon  being 
an  exact  thinker,  and  abhorred  metaphysics,  which  he 
contemptuously  classed  with  poetry  as  among  the 
solid  stumblin<r-bloeks  to  civilization. 


88  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

The  writings  of  Emerson  impressed  him,  when  in 
particular  moods,  but  he  always  covertly  resented  the 
spells  of  that  unique  sorcerer,  whom  he  looked  on 
as  "spoiled"  by  the  influences  of  an  overgrown  imag- 
ination. He  had  been  fascinated  by  the  essays  of  so 
supreme  an  idealist  and  moralist,  but  rebelled  against 
the  very  charm  they  exerted.  "  They're  fine,"  he  had 
once  declared  aloud,  late  at  night,  amid  the  silence  of 
his  library,  after  having  yielded  himself  for  an  hour  or 
so  to  the  piercing  qualities  of  their  epigram;  "but 
they're  bricks  without  mortar ;  the  ideas  in  them  don't 
hang  together.  No  wonder  they've  begotten  so  many 
gushing  transcendentalists !  " 

Mentally  furnished  as  he  was  with  all  that  is  best  in 
the  scientific  discovery  and  speculation  of  this  unpar- 
alleled century,  he  had  still  reaped  from  his  voluntary 
and  even  fond  studies  nothing  except  the  most  bar- 
ren materialism.  The  splendid  standard  of  conduct 
pointed  to  by  Herbert  Spencer's  priceless  philosophy 
had  not  stirred  in  him  a  pulse'  of  admiration.  All 
that  Huxley  or  Buckle  or  Lecky  had  taught  him  had 
been  a  deference  to  the  brain-powers  that  could  thus 
tear  the  husk  of  superstition  and  humbug  from  preg- 
nant, irrefutable  truth.  It  was  all  very  well  for  a  few 
men  to  live  up  to  humanitarian  theories,  if  so  dis- 
posed. It  was  right ;  he  admitted  that  it  was  right. 
But  now,  at  sixty  or  thereabouts,  he  would  probably 
have  only  ten  or  fifteen  years  more  to  live,  and  he 
meant  to  pass  through  those  years  in  comfortable  ob- 
servance of  accepted  formulas.  He  had  made  a  Will, 
bequeathing  all  his  large  fortune  to  well-known  and 
trusted  charities.  That  concession  (surprising  as  it 
would  prove  for  the  poor  cousins  who  had  already 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  89 

fixed  expectant  eyes  upon  his  money)  he  was  willing 
to  grant  the  enlightenment  of  the  time.  But  there  his 
altruism  stopped  short.  He  was  the  kind  of  agnostic 
who  might  have  supplied  unnumbered  texts  for  denun- 
ciators of  reigning  rationalism.  The  glorious  future 
possibilities  that  evolution  offers  to  our  race  had  failed 
spiritually  to  move  him.  What  has  been  called  the 
"new  religion  "  struck  him  as  being  full  of  practical 
wisdom  apart  from  its  exalted  philanthropy.  But  he 
still  remained  an  unruffled  idolater  of  self.  He  some- 
times inwardly  wondered  that  the  men  with  whom  he 
talked  in  Wall  Street  or  at  the  club  did  not  guess  of 
what  irresponsive  marble  he  was  made.  He  often 
suspected  that  some  of  the  women,  least  frivolous 
and  hollow,  did  guess ;  but  then  he  usually  chose,  if 
permissible,  the  company  of  women  in  whose  fair 
bosoms  no  hearts  beat  for  the  loftier  ethical  needs. 
He  had  long  ago  assured  himself  that  all  except  hand- 
some women  were  repellent  to  him.  Unless  theii' 
lineaments  pleased  him,  their  conversation  irritated 
him.  It  was  different,  of  course,  with  great  female 
personages  like  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and  Mrs.  Satter- 
thvvaite.  They  were  not  merely  women  ;  they  were 
majestic  portresses  at  a  palatial  gateway ;  give  a 
woman  distinction,  prerogative,  and  plainness  or  ma- 
turity can  be  endured  in  her.  That  was  why  marriage 
had  such  a  ghastly  side  to  it ;  two  people  swore  at  the 
altar  that  they  would  calmly  watch  one  another  decay. 
Delaplaine  had  congratulated  himself  again  and  again 
that  he  had  permanently  escaped  the  making  of  so 
foolish  a  vow.  As  it  was,  he  had  gone  along  through 
this  vale  of  tears,  he  felt  inclined  to  think,  at  a  very 
prosperous  pace,  and  he  meant  to  take  the  rest  of  the 


90  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

journey  in  equal  comfort.  He  might  have  done  a 
great  deal  more  good  than  he  had  done;  but  there 
would  have  been  the  concomitant  trouble  in  doing  the 
good  —  and  that  he  chose  to  avoid.  Besides,  if  he 
spent  his  money  that  way,  it  would  cease  to  roll  up 
like  a  gigantic  pecuniary  snowball.  And  he  wanted  it 
so  to  roll  up.  There  was  far  less  of  avarice  in  this  de- 
sire than  of  inflexible  ambition.  Wealth  meant  such 
domination,  precedence,  and  supremacy  nowadays; 
the  having  it  in  great  quantities  implied  a  vast  deal 
more  than  the  spending  it  in  comparatively  small 
ones. 

A  blunder  that  above  all  others  Delaplaine  never 
wanted  to  commit  was  the  revelation  of  his  own  real 
bloodless  nature  to  those  with  whom  he  associated. 
He  had  no  friends,  and  desired  none ;  he  held  all 
friendship  to  be  wrought  of  sentimentality  —  a  mere 
frangible  air-bridge  swung  between  the  two  massive 
and  calculable  passions,  hate  and  love.  But  he  had 
hosts  of  acquaintances,  and  these  he  was  quite  willing 
to  let  believe  him  remarkably  cold,  though  not  abnor- 
mally so.  When  they  laughed  at  his  astute  or  shrewd 
sayings  about  men  and  things,  it  pleased  him  to  have 
them  laugh.  But  the  draughts  of  penetrative  com- 
ment he  drew  for  them  must  not  be  too  bitter;  he 
liked  at  least  a  tincture  of  sunshine  to  blend  with  the 
waters,  so  that  they  should  not  taste  too  acridly  of 
the  dark  earthy  cistern  whence  they  had  been  taken. 
He  liked  to  bear  the  reputation  of  a  rather  caustic  wit, 
but  it  did  not  at  all  suit  him  to  rend  that  inner  veil 
which  concealed  his  unrelenting  pessimism,  his  con- 
tempt for  the  spirit  of  righteous  Jaw  filmed  over  by 
politic  obedience  to  its  letter,  his  inveterate  distrust  of 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  91 

mortality  at  large,  his  innate  faith  as  to  the  void  noth- 
ingness which  lay  behind  our  whole  sublunar  scheme. 
He  clung  very  stoutly  to  the  outward  seeming  of  daily 
behavior.  We  were  all  mere  puppets ;  the  entire  ter- 
restrial proceeding  was  farcical  as  a  Punchinello-show; 
but,  meanwhile,  being  in  and  of  the  show,  he  pro- 
posed that  he  should  play  there  as  one  of  those  pup- 
pets which  make  a  victorious  bow  to  the  spectators  at 
the  fall  of  the  pretty  miniature  curtain.  Such  arid 
chaff  as  this  he  had  reaped  from  contact  with  the  most 
fecund  and  stimulating  minds  of  an  epoch  like  the 
present.  They,  the  lineal  heirs  of  Locke  and  Bacon, 
of  Spinoza  and  Comte,  had  taught  him  only  the  big- 
otry of  self-worship !  But  aggravating  and  pitiful  as 
it  may  sound,  he  had  passed  years  of  sleek  content- 
ment with  his  garner  of  scoff  and  lip-service,  his  har- 
vest of  despair  and  hypocrisy.  "No  one  knows  much 
about  me,"  he  had  more  than  once  triumphantly  med- 
itated, "except  that  I  am  a  flourishing  banker,  say 
rather  sharp  things  now  and  then,  drop  into  my  pew 
at  Grace  Church  every  other  Sunday  or  so,  have  the 
entree  to  all  the  best  houses  in  town,  and  generally  de- 
port myself  like  a  gentleman.  If  I  live  fifteen  years 
longer  —  and  I  ought  to  live  twenty,  considering  the 
care  I've  taken  of  myself  —  it  will  be  going  down 
hill  all  that  time.  This  infernal  gout  is  sure  to  grow 
worse  as  I  grow  older,  and  each  attack  nowadays,  I 
find,  lays  me  up  for  a  longer  period.  But  what  of 
that?  I  shall  have  had  more  sweet  juice  from  the 
orange  of  life,  and  less  of  the  harsh  tang  its  rind  can 
mingle  there,  than  nine-tenths  of  even  the  fortunate 
fruit-gatherers.  I'll  go  to  my  grave  as  one  man  out  of 
ten  thousand  goes  —  bah!  it  would  be  truer  to  say 


92  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

twenty!  My  plot  is  bought  in  Woodlawn,  and  the 
order  for, a  handsome  monument  in  the  middle  of  it  is 
snugly  appended  to  my  charitable  Will.  All  that  re- 
mains for  me,  now,  is  to  slide  as  gracefully  and  becom- 
ingly out  of  the  nonsensical  worry  and  fluster  as  I've 
acquitted  myself  respectably  and  commendably  while 
one  of  its  participants." 

So  ran  the  reflections  of  this  confident  manipulator 
with  destiny,  and  so  they  continued  to  run,  till  a 
special  day,  not  long  before  the  beginning  of  these 
pages  that  faithfully  expose  them,  brought  him  a 
novel  and  unanticipated  experience. 

One  name  may  stand  for  this  experience.  It  was  — 
Olivia  Van  Rensselaer. 

He  had  made  jest,  at  first,  of  his  own  curious  emo- 
tional flutter.  More  than  once,  in  former  days,  he 
had  seriously  entertained  the  idea  of  marriage,  but 
had  dismissed  it  before  the  least  compromising  step 
had  been  taken.  In  one  instance  the  lady  had  been 
young,  of  radiant  beauty,  and  the  possessor  of  a  copi- 
ous fortune.  If  report  spoke  fact  she  had  been  devot- 
edly attached  to  Spencer  Delaplaine.  But  all  this  had 
happened  when  he  was  just  turning  forty,  and  perhaps 
as  brilliantly  eligible  as  any  man  in  the  metropolis. 
He  had  cautiously  reviewed  the  advantages  and  draw- 
backs, then,  of  a  union  with  so  delectable  a  bride,  and 
had  affirmed  the  latter  to  preponderate.  It  would  all 
be  very  distinguished  and  noteworthy,  he  concluded, 
but  it  would  most  dictatorially  interfere  with  the 
comforts  of  bachelorhood.  He  could  not  see  the  use 
in  contracting  new  ties.  Family  ties,  above  all  others, 
were  mere  sugared  pills.  A  so-called  pleasant  respon- 
sibility was  none  the  less  burdensome  because  you 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  93 

tried  to  persuade  yourself  that  you  were  not  bowing 
your  back  under  it.  No ;  lie  would  stay  single.  An 
eminent  marriage  would  be  of  no  consequence  to  a 
man  like  himself.  Let  the  real  stragglers  mount  on 
that  kind  of  stepping-stone;  he  liad  gone  up  too  high 
for  the  necessity  of  any  such  assistance. 

Now,  having  met  Olivia  two  or  three  times  after 
her  final  return,  and  when  the  illness  of  his  partner 
had  made  direct  intercourse  between  himself  and  her 
a  requisite  occurrence,  his  own  possible  marriage 
dawned  upon  him  in  a  totally  new  light.  Since  he 
had  been  fifty  it  had  indeed  not  dawned  upon  him  at 
all ;  it  had  been  relegated  to  that  limbo  of  unconcern 
where  lay  not  a  few  abandoned  projects  in  similar 
desuetude. 

But  the  presence  of  Olivia,  the  light  of  her  blue 
eyes,  the  appealing  melody  of  her  voice,  the  indefin- 
able allurement  of  her  chaste  simplicity,  had  touched 
fibres  in  his  being  that  he  had  long  ago  deemed  either 
to  be  dead  or  never  actually  living.  He  had  aired 
some  grossly  pungent  opinions  upon  the  love  of  the 
sexes,  in  former  hours,  when  his  tongue  tripped  more 
glib  at  smart  jeux  cTesprit  than  now ;  but  he  had 
never  spoken  half  the  contemptuous  innuendo  that 
slept  hidden  behind  these  open  disparagements.  Of 
all  the  calamities  that  could  befall  him  he  had  failed 
to  prophesy  any  positive  seizure  by  a  sentiment.  But 
here,  he  soon  realized,  was  malady  of  more  poignant 
bane.  If  it  did  not  closely  resemble  a  passion,  then  all 
his  past  acute  observation  of  his  fellow  creatures 
amounted  to  little.  And  at  his  age !  Pah !  it  was 
clear  burlesque ! 

To  his  keen  dismay  he  found  himself  deriding  it 


94  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

with  the  laughter  Mephistopheles  might  have  inaudibly 
bestowed  on  the  infatuation  of  Faust.  And  yet,  by 
some  puzzling  enigma  of  circumstance,  lie  enacted 
both  these  roles  in  the  strangely  unexpected  drama. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  called  upon  all  the  grimmest 
resources  of  a  humor  at  no  time  genial.  He  likened 
himself  with  no  avail  to  a  gouty  and  superannuated 
Romeo.  Self-scorn  would  not  serve  him.  The  sun  in 
Olivia's  tresses  beamed  to  him  no  less  vividly;  nor 
did  the  elusive  dimple  in  her  roseleaf  of  a  cheek  obey 
less  flexibly  her  awaited  smile. 

He  was  in  love  at  last  —  he,  who  had  asserted  love 
to  be  a  folly  of  the  senses,  rampant  in  youth  and 
extinct  a  decade  or  two  after  it.  The  very  bodily 
preservation  in  which  he  had  exulted,  now  cohf routed 
him  as  a  jeering  excuse  for  his  fond  transport ;  this 
delightful  malady  would  never  have  presumed  to  at- 
tack him,  at  his  age,  if  he  had  not  gone  on  judiciously 
husbanding  enough  prime  vitality  for  its  maintenance. 
There  were  two  or  three  women  in  New  York  society 
whom  for  some  time  it  had  amused  him  to  make  the 
recipients  of  his  loyal,  though  harmless  gallantries. 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  was  one  of  these.  He  would  be 
sure,  a  few  years  ago,  either  to  seat  himself  in  her 
box  at  the  opera  during  some  portion  of  the  evening, 
or  to  hover  near  it  if  it  were  too  full  for  entrance  — 
as  those  old  boxes  in  the  horseshoe  of  the  Academy 
of  Music  were  easily  rendered.  At  many  a  ball, 
reception  or  dinner,  lie  would  exchange  with  her 
words  of  gayety,  gossip,  or  a  certain  sort  of  flirtation 
in  whose  art  he  was  the  supplest  of  adepts,  and  she 
was  very  far  from  inefficient.  The  world  knew  him 
as  one  of  Mrs.  Satterthwaite's  unfailing  devotees;  and 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  95 

matrons  of  her  years,  even  when  they  are  the  chdte- 
laines  of  superb  establishments  and  give  banquets 
where  the  wines  defy  detraction,  are  rarely  troubled 
by  a  plethora  of  devotees.  After  a  rather  prolonged 
battle  with  the  new  feelings  that  possessed  him,  Dela- 
plaine  determined  to  seek  the  advice  of  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite.  He  selected  a  particular  evening  when  he 
was  almost  confident  she  would  be  at  home,  and  he 
went  early  in  order  to  anticipate  other  visitors.  But 
almost  the  first  ray  that  shot  from  her  steely  eyes 
weakened  his  resolution.  And  when  her  smile  came, 
seeming  to  give  her  lips  a  cruel  curl  that  he  had  never 
noticed  until  now,  he  abandoned  his  purpose  alto- 
gether. How  that  smile  would  change  into  pitiless 
ironic  laughter  if  she  knew  the  truth  !  And  what  a 
fool  he  had  been  to  dream  of  telling  her !  "  I'll  put 
the  Atlantic  between  me  and  that  girl ! "  he  swore  to 
himself,  later  in  the  evening.  "  This  is  just  the  season 
for  the  Riviera,  and  I've  never  seen  half  enough  of  it." 
But  he  did  not  go  to  the  Riviera.  He  stayed  in 
New  York,  and  felt  the  clutch  of  this  astounding  pas- 
sion tighten  about  his  heart,  and  so  tell  him  that  a 
heart  was  really  there.  His  self-humiliation  was, 
meanwhile,  proportionate  to  his  enchantment.  Dur- 
ing the  interviews  that  he  held  with  Olivia  previous  to 
that  final  meeting  which  has  been  described  in  detail, 
he  battled  silently  against  the  impulse  to  disclose  his 
secret,  as  though  it  involved  rank  disgrace.  Like 
nearly  all  in  whom  love  of  self  is  paramount,  he  was 
acutely  sensitive  to  ridicule.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
he  underwent  severe  suffering  while  he  pictured  the 
amazement,  quickly  succeeded  by  repulsion,  which  his 
amatory  confession  might  cause.  He  mutely  groaned 


96  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

beneath  the  curse  of  his  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles  as 
perhaps  few  of  his  sex  have  ever  groaned  before.  And 
here  was  just  the  girl  to  show  him,  with  all  the  unvar- 
nished frankness  of  maidenhood,  how  delicious  an  old 
fool  he  had  made  of  himself  ! 

Still,  all  this  time  his  worldliness  was  counselling 
hope  to  him.  Old  as  he  was,  he  was  not  too  old  to 
marry  a  blooming  young  bride.  Men  had  done  it 
before,  when  their  purses  were  as  well-lined  as  his  own. 
There  was  no  young  suitor  in  the  field,  either,  and 
that  counted  for  much.  Then,  if  her  father  died  (as 
die  he  must,  said  the  doctors),  she  would  be  left  to 
face  the  intelligence  of  his  past  ruinous  disbursements. 
In  her  alarm,  her  bewilderment,  why  should  she  not 
grasp  at  the  first  strong  hand  of  help  proffered  her? 
He  found  himself  ardently  wishing  that  she  were  a 
few  years  older,  and  that  he  yet  cared  for  her  as  he  did 
now.  She  would  be  sure  not  to  hesitate  then.  No 
full-grown  woman,  who  had  outlived  the  early  roman- 
tic quivers  and  illusions,  ever  did  hesitate  to  marry 
where  lay  her  best  vantage  of  wealth  and  position. 
They  were  all  alike ;  the  lover  with  the  languishing 
eyes  and  the  slim  bank  account  was  sent  off  begging, 
and  the  plain-featured  or  elderly  wooer  with  the  fat 
income  carried  his  point.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  seen  it 
work  like  this  a  hundred  times.  But  Olivia  was  not  a 
full-grown  woman ;  there  seemed  to  rise  the  dreaded 
impediment.  That  devilish  romanticism  which  per- 
petually went  with  girls  of  her  age  might  put  up  a 
barrier  as  powerful  as  if  she  were  some  demoiselle  of 
the  sang  azur  and  he  merely  the  American  gentleman 
of  means  that  he  rated  himself. 

He    had    chosen    to   let    his    friend,   Mrs.    Satter- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  97 

thwaite,  and  her  ultra-patrician  sister,  be  the  emissa- 
ries who  should'  first  impart  the  unpalatable  tidings. 
That  was  unquestionably  the  neater  plan.  He  would 
appear  a  little  later — as  we  are  aware  that  he  did 
appear.  He  had  not  been  at  all  sure  that  he  would 
then  make  to  Olivia  the  disclosure  he  longed  to  make. 
No  palpitating  lover  of  one-and-twenty  could  have 
been  more  uncertain  as  to  the  exact  moment  favorable 
for  "  speaking  out  "  than  this  grizzly  veteran  of  untold 
tact  and  duplicity.  But  the  time  had  arrived  when 
Olivia  had  announncd  to  him  her  intention  of  earning 
her  own  livelihood  —  and  with  that  abominable  per- 
son, Mrs.  Ottarson  !  He  had  met  the  girl's  affirmation 
with  a  little  rush  of  cynicism  at  first;  that  had  been 
irreversible  with  him  ;  he  could  no  more  have  helped 
it  than  he  could  have  helped  his  baldness  or  his  attenu- 
ation. But  afterward  the  chance  for  unreserved 
avowal  had  seemed  to  lie  just  here.  It  hardly  ap- 
peared conceivable  that  Olivia  would  prefer  paid  ser- 
vitude under  Mi's.  Ottarson  to  driving  in  her  own 

O 

carriage  as  Mrs.  Spencer  Delaplaine. 

That  she  had  treated  him  precisely  as  she  had  done 
he  did  not  think  at  all  surprising.  It  would  have  been 
highly  improbable  that  such  a  girl  should  do  anything 
else.  A  week  —  perhaps  even  a  day  —  might  change 
her  rnood,  her  point  of  view.  Besides,  that  unutter- 
able Mrs.  Ottarson,  with  all  her  villanies  against  the 
Queen's  English,  was  not  qxiite  dunce  enough  to 
advise  the  discountenancing  of  a  match  like  this. 
And  yet,  who  could  tell?  The  woman  might  be  one 
of  those  who  read  the  Weekly  Wake-Me-Up,  or  some 
similar  harrowing  sheet,  where  they  printed  stories  of 
how  Luella  wedded  the  penniless  young  painter  and 


98  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  and  smiled  haughtily, 
when  his  wealthy  but  wrinkled  rival  begged  for  her 
lily  hand. 

He  would  not  by  any  means  retire  from  the  contest. 
He  would  simply  silence  his  guns  and  watch  the  ene- 
my's movements  as  best  he  might.  Thus  he  decided, 
that  same  evening,  as  he  crossed  the  big,  lonely,  dusky 
square,  and  moved  up  along  the  lower  portion  of 
Fifth  Avenue.  It  is  always  quiet  here,  with  no  rattle 
of  omnibus- wheels  or  jingle  of  car-bells.  Delaplaine's 
residence  was  not  far  away,  in  West  Tenth  Street. 
He  owned  and  occupied  a  rather  spacious  house  there ; 
he  had  done  so  for  years,  not  liking  to  dine  regularly 
at  his  club,  bachelor  though  he  was.  There  were  too 
few  men  of  the  very  first  grade,  he  had  long  ago  made 
up  his  mind,  Avho  lived  in  this  way  on  our  side  of  the 
ocean.  Besides,  he  dined  out  a  great  deal  all  through 
the  season,  and  he  liked  to  return  those  dinners  in 
kind,  with  the  mark  on  them  of  his  own  menage  and 
his  own  chef.  Occasionally  he  would  give  an  evening 
reception,  at  which  every  appointment  was  perfect, 
with  some  reigning  lady  of  fashion  to  welcome  the 
guests  in  his  company.  The  year  that  Emmeline  Sat- 
terthwaite  came  out  he  issued  cards  for  a  brilliant  ball 
in  her  honor —  a  signal  of  such  profound  civility  to  the 
young  lady's  mamma  and  herself  that  envy  seized  the 
weapon  of  gossip,  as  it  so  often  does  when  it  can  find 
one  within  reach.  It  asserted  that  "Of  course  the  ball 
was  beautiful,  and  a  success,  and  all  that,  but  then  one 
couldn't  refrain  from  asking  whether  it  wn&just  in  the 
nicest  taste  or  no."  Delaplaine  and  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  heard  some  of  these  affectionate  hints,  and 
laughed  together  over  them.  The  lady  herself  was 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE.  99 

not  at  all  bored,  but  not  half  so  much  amused  as  she 
would  have  liked  to  be.  She  was  too  many  rungs  of 
the  social  ladder  above  nearly  all  these  jealous  beings 
to  care  for  whatever  spiteful  pellets  they  might  fling 
from  ambush.  But  the  ball  had  conferred  great  joy 
upon  her  for  one  conspicuous  reason :  the  Auchin- 
closses  had  never  had  a  like  honor  bestowed  on  their 
Madeleine  ;  and  they  would  have  thought  it  an  unde- 
niable honor.  Severely  as  Letitia  Auchincloss 
"  weeded  "  her  list,  she  had  never  dreamed  of  suppos- 
ing that  her  brother's  partner  could  hold  any  but  an 
honorable  place  there. 

Delaplaine  ascended  the  soft-carpeted  stairs  of  his 
commodious  home  to-night,  and  felt  what  a  rich  frame 
it  would  make  for  the  living  picture  which  he  was 
bent  upon  surrounding  by  it.  And  she  was  of  the 
Van  Rensselaer  blood,  too.  If  he  had  believed  in  a 
Providence,  he  would  have  been  strongly  inclined  to 
thank  it  for  that  agreeable  fact.  The  entire  mansion 
w.as  already  most  suitably  prepared  for  the  entrance  of 
a  bride.  The  drawing-rooms  were  a  nonpareil  of  ele- 
gance and  comfort.  The  upper  chambers,  divided  one 
from  another  by  silken  porti&res,  needed  no  fresh 
grace  of  decoration.  Costly  paintings  and  engravings 
lined  every  wall,  for  Delaplaine  loved  Art,  as  many 
men  of  just  his  temperament  do  ;  he  had  purchased  a 
Bouguereau  and  a  Gerome,  a  Toulmouche  and  a  De 
Jonghe,  and  a  little  Meissonier  at  some  huge  price. 
No  Corot,  however,  was  to  be  found  in  his  dwelling ; 
he  considered  Corot  a  humbug,  and  Daubigny,  Rous- 
seau, Dupre,  humbugs  as  well.  They  were  quite  too 
idealistic  to  gratify  him.  He  execrated  artists  who 
strove  to  paint  the  unpaintable.  There  was  enough 


100  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

reality  to  put  on  canvas ;  why  strive  to  put  impossi- 
ble dreams  there  ? 

His  great  tufted  easy-chair  was  waiting  for  him  in 
his  library  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  on  its  second  story. 
The  lamp  of  Japanese  bronze  on  his  reading-table 
beamed  to  him  its  old  suave  welcome  behind  a  rosy 
shade.  A  genial  flame  writhed  and  sparkled  from  two 
burly  logs  on  the  low  hearth,  with  its  gleaming  and- 
irons and  its  glassy  tilework.  A  valet  was  within 
easy  call.  To  touch  the  little  silver  bell  on  the  book- 
loaded  table  and  summon  him  was  no  more  difficult 
than  to  reach  out  a  hand  and  take  up  the  last  copy  of  a 
noted  English  review,  and  find  out  what  new  Ameri- 
can author  it  had  vented  its  insular  spleen  upon. 

"  She  would  like  all  this,"  he  said  to  himself,  sur- 
veying the  apartment,  with  its  low  book-cases,  its 
precious  bits  of  sculpture  and  bric-a-brac  picked  up 
abroad,  its  prostrate  gorgeousness  of  Turkish  rugs,  its 
tapestries,  its  tasteful  and  luxurious  air  of  faultless 
bien  etre.  At  the  same  time  he  recalled  the  exquisite 
arrangement  of  other  rooms,  visited  perhaps  but  once 
a  foi-tnight  or  still  more  seldom,  yet  always  kept  in 
the  most  irreproachable  order  by.a  body  of  trained 
servants.  His  entire  establishment  was  an  ornate 
monumental  tribute  to  his  own  selfishness. 

He  lit  a  cigar.  He  never  smoked  more  than  two 
cigars  during  the  twenty-four  hours ;  one  after  dining 
and  one  a  little  before  bed-time.  As  he  sank  into  the 
big  cushioned  chair  and  puffed  forth  the  first  blue 
clouds  from  a  Cuban  tobacco  imported  by  himself,  he 
faintly  repeated,  half  aloud,  the  reflection  which  had 
before  been  a  silent  one :  — 

"  She  would  like  all  this." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  101 

He  meant  that  she  should  not  only  like  it,  but 
marry  to  get  it.  He  had  not  by  any  means  done  with 
Olivia  Van  Rensselaer  yet.  Indeed,  the  longer  that 
he  sat  musing  and  smoking  there  in  his  library,  the 
more  convinced  he  felt  that  now  the  ice  had  been 
once  fairly  broken,  the  true  line  of  action  had  begun. 

Meanwhile,  at  this  same  hour,  Olivia  was  saying, 
very  earnestly  yet  sedately,  to  Mrs.  Ottarson :  — 

"  I  don't  think  it  possible  that  he  really  could  care  for 
me  —  an  old  man  like  that.  Do  you,  Aunt  Thyrza?" 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  so ! "  cried  Mrs.  Ottarson,  in  her  galvanic 
style;  "  they  sometimes  do,  'Livia.  But  it's  too  awful 
to  think  of  you  goin'  that  way  !  Mercy  sakes  !  I  don't 
see  how  you  kep'  a  straight  face.  I  couldn't,  'f  I'd 
been  twenty  years  'r  so  younger,  and  he'd  said  it  to  me." 

"  It  would  have  been  dreadful  to  laugh,"  answered 
Olivia.  "  It  would  have  been  insulting,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Of  course  it  would."  .  .  .  Mrs.  Ottarson 
wore  a  meditative  look  for  a  moment.  "'Livia,"  she 
presently  murmured,  all  the  celerity  and  levity  gone 
from  her  tones,  "  I  dare  say  there's  plenty  that  would 
call  it  an  el'gant  thing  f  you.  There's  mothers  that 
would  almost  drag  a  girl  o'  theirs  to  the  altar  if  she 
got  such  a  chance  o'  goin'  there.  Oh,  yes.  I  know 
this  world,  if  any  one  does."  Here  she  paused  again, 
and  a  curious,  drawn,  pei-plexed,  irritated  look  showed 
itself  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "  I  mus'  say, 
'Livia,  that  I  would  like  t'  see  you  his  widoic" 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Thyrza  !  " 

"I'd  like  if  you'd  been  all  through  the  hateful  part 
of  it  an'  come  to  the  part  worth  havin'." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Thyrza,"  still  pleaded  the  girl ;  "  don't !  " 


102  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"I  can't  help  it  when  I  think  o'  that  sumpshus 
house  o'  his  there  in  Tenth  Street,  an'  the  carriage  I've 
seen  him  ridin'  along  the  Fifth  Av'nu'  in.  Nobody 
dis'proves  of  't  more'n  I  do  when  't  comes  to  a  girl 
downright  sellin''  herself.  No,  indeed!  But  when  I 
think  o'  that  carriage,  'Livia,  with  two  men  up  on  the 
box  in  bottle-green  liv'ry,  and  nobody  inside  but  just 
him,  w'y,  't  seems  to  me  't  if  some  girl  wasn't  han- 
kerin'  partic'lar  after  young  comp'ny,  she  might  kind 
o'  jus'  shut  her  eyes  an'  take  the  jump !  " 

Olivia  broke  into  a  laugh,  but  at  the  same  time  she 
went  up  to  her  aunt  and  playfully  put  one  hand  over 
the  lady's  mouth,  as  if  to  forbid  further  volubility  in 
at  least  a  single  direction. 

"I'm  not  going  to  shut  my  eyes  and  take  any  such 
jump,"  she  exclaimed.  "  And  I  know  very  well  that 
you  wouldn't  either  wish  or  advise  it.  ...  But  what 
I  propose,  with  your  permission,  to  do  very  soon, 
Aunt  Thyrza,  is  to  move  myself  and  my  few  posses- 
sions out  of  this  house.  Your  people  need  you  —  I'm 
certain  of  it.  Before  very  long  I  hope  to  make  them 
feel  as  if  they  needed  me  too.  I  only  hope  I  can  get  on 
half  as  well  there  as  Ida  Strang  did.  It's  just  as  if  she 
left  you  to  give  me  a  chance,  but  I  shall  never  leave 
you  for  any  such  reason  as  hers.  I  intend  never  to 
marry,  Aunt  Thyrza,  as  long  as  I  live.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
we  can  manage  to  start  for  Twenty-Third  Street  by 
to-morrow  afternoon.  Don't  you  believe  it  will  be 
possible?  I  want  to  go  as  soon  as  that.  If  my  aunts 
come  again,  or  if  he  should  come,  I  want  them  to  find 
me  there  with  you.  That  will  simply  settle  every- 
thing. Now  let  us  try  if  we  can't  get  away  by  to- 
morrow ! " 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  103 


VI. 


THEY  did  try,  and  succeeded.  That  next  day,  with 
its  hurry  of  packing,  cost  Olivia  a  good  many  pangs. 
But  she  consoled  herself  somewhat  by  thinking  that 
possibly,  if  the  day  were  less  busy,  she  would  have  had 
time  to  suffer  much  more  poignantly.  Not  the  least 
of  her  trials  came  in  the  discharge  of  her  French 
maid,  a  girl  to  whom  she  had  become  attached  while 
abroad,  and  to  whom  the  necessity  of  imparting  full 
reasons  for  their  sudden  separation  was  trying  enough. 
In  the  hasty  collection  of  all  those  possessions  to 
which  she  knew  that  she  had  a  personal  right,  Olivia 
came  inevitably  upon  not  a  few  tokens  that  brimmed 
her  eyes  with  filial  tears.  The  bitter  thought  was  al- 
ready at  work  within  her  soul  that  the  father  she 
mourned  had  treated  her  with  heedless  cruelty.  She 
strove  against  the  distressing  influences  of  such  a  re- 
flection, however,  and  in  a  spirit  of  courage  no  less 
dutiful  than  pathetic,  we  have  heard  her  tell  Mrs. 
Ottarson  that  she  believed  it  would  form  her  chief 
sorrow  hereafter,  in  thinking  of  her  father,  to  recall 
how  he  must  have  suffered  when  monetary  perplexi- 
ties assailed  him.  But  now,  already,  she  could  feel  the 
impulse  of  reproach  and  blame  cloud  and  mar  for  her 
the  tender  brightness  of  his  memory.  Her  clear  com- 
prehension of  moral  obliquity,  whenever  and  wherever 
met,  compelled  her  to  pass  condemning  judgment 
upon  his  actions.  And  she  disliked  to  have  his  image 


104  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

in  succeeding  time  rise  before  her  with  this  blur  across 
it  of  unconquerable  resentment.  It  would  be  so  un- 
happy a  thing  to  go  on  seeking  excuses  for  him,  and 
perhaps  never  lighting  on  one  that  was  truly  adequate ! 
He  had  so  long  been  her  ideal  of  gentlemen  that  it 
was  like  putting  out  the  sacred  tripod-flames  in  a  tem- 
ple to  discontinue  accrediting  him  with  virtue  above 
the  reach  of  condonation  ! 

She  had,  as  yet,  no  conception  of  how  mordant 
were  to  be  the  changes  in  her  life.  Eager  to  avoid 
dependence  where  a  girl  of  weaker  parts  would  have  al- 
most thankfully  grasped  the  chance  of  securing  it,  she 
had  wholly  miscalculated  her  own  strength  to  enter 
among  surroundings  new  in  the  sense  of  an  unimag- 
ined  novelty.  The  dismissal  of  her  French  maid  was 
but  a  faintly  unpleasant  pi'elude  to  graver  sacrifices. 
Stepping,  the  self-supposed  heiress  of  a  large  property, 
down  from  a  home  which  but  yesterday  she  had 
looked  on  as  inalienably  her  own,  into  a  boarding- 
house  full  of  people  with  whose  types  and  charactei-- 
istics  she  was  entirely  unacquainted  and  quickly 
prepared  to  disagree,  meant  a  great  deal  more  than 
fancy  at  its  ablest  flight  could  have  informed  her.  It 
needed  considerable  effort  for  Mrs.  Ottarson  and  her- 
self to  get  away  from  the  Washington  Square  resi- 
dence, in  the  meaning  of  an  absolute  and  final 
departure,  before  about  half-past  three  o'clock  that 
afternoon.  But  they  accomplished  the  feat,  and 
Olivia  left  with  a  certainty  that  she  should  find  her 
baggage  deposited  at  the  abode  of  her  aunt  some  time 
before  she  herself  arrived  there. 

It  was  one  of  those  thoroughly  prosaic  red-brick, 
high-stooped  houses  in  the  west  portion  of  Twenty- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  105 

Third  Street,  between  Seventh  and  Eighth  Avenues, 
for  which  that  momentous  locality  deserves  anything 
but  celebrating  mention  !  There  is  probably  no  large 
city  within  the  present  ken  of  those  versed  in  the 
topography  of  such  progression,  that  has  grown  as  un- 
picturesquely  as  New  York  has  done.  For  years  it 
increased  the  number  of  its  streets  with,  an  attention 
to  quiet  ugliness  of  outline  that  gave  no  promise  of 
the  lovely  Central  Park  destined  as  a  sort  of  metro- 
politan repentance  for  past  misdeeds.  From  North 
River  to  East  the  hideous  avenues  have  swept,  one 
after  another,  across  town.  Smartness  of  exterior  has 
now  and  then  ci'opped  out  in  the  brown-stone  front 
and  the  plate-glass  window-pane,  but  except  for  the 
expression  of  a  certain  high-stepping,  dapper  gentility, 
there  is  not  much  relief  from  prevalent  uncouthness 
anywhere  between  Waverley  Place  and  Fifty-Seventh 
Street.  Here  the  true  architectural  fire  leaps  into 
creditable  blaze,  and  a  half-suburban  stroll  up  through 
Harlem,  and  even  beyond  it,  will  easily  make  us  ready 
to  prophesy  how  beautiful,  how  imperial  a  city  New 
York  may  one  day  become,  when  all  the  eyes  that 
now  mark  the  domain  of  its  growing  grandeur  have 
long  ago  been  sightless  ! 

Mrs.  Ottarson's  boarding-house  might  just  as  well 
have  been  either  of  its  next-door  neighbors,  for  any 
outward  individuality  presented  by  it.  But  inside,  it 
was  probably  cleaner  than  a  good  many  of  its  fellow 
boarding-houses.  Its  proprietress  endeavored  to  keep 
it  so,  and  not  without  fair  success.  But  the  dinginess, 
the  shabbiness,  the  wear  and  tear,  the  out-at-elbows 
and  down-at-the-heel  look  of  nearly  everything,  she 
would  have  found  it  hard  enough  to  rectify.  She  had 


106  OLIVIA  DELAPLAIXE. 

always  managed  to  hold  her  own  with  her  boarders, 
while  never  attempting  to  overawe  them  by  the  slight- 
est assumption  of  undue  majesty ;  it  was  extraordinary 
how  skilfully  she  contrived  to  steer  between  austerity 
on  the  one  hand  and  over-humility  on  the  other. 
Such  a  position  as  hers  it  is  not  easy  to  assert  and 
maintain ;  but  she  had  done  both  for  a  number  of 
years  with  excellent  success.  Her  boarders  were  for 
the  most  part  fond  of  her,  and  three  or  four  of  them 
had  followed  her  to  these  ampler  quarters  from  a  nar- 
row and  much  inferior  house  in  Greenwich  Avenue. 
Others  were  the  result  of  her  improved  facilities  of  ac- 
commodation, and  one  or  two  of  these  latter  she  re- 
garded with  pride  as  the  living  evidence  of  her  rise  in 
the  world.  The  day  of  her  home-coming  was  indeed 
an  eventful  day  for  the  boarders.  Hearing  that  it  was 
near  and  probable,  they  had  "  clubbed  together,"  as 
they  called  the  operation,  and  purchased  a  water- 
pitcher  of  sufficient  splendor  to  glare  down  the' 
idea  of  its  not  being  silver,  though  in  reality  but 
"  warranted "  plate  —  whatever  that  epithet  may 
mean.  Considering  that  every  boarder  in  the  house 
would  most  probably  make  use  of  this  pitcher  quite 
as  often  as  Mrs.  Ottarson  would  do,  there  was  an 
apparent  lack  of  self-forgetfulness  in  the  nature  of 
the  gift  that  might  wickedly  have  tempted  a  humor- 
ist. It  was  to  be  formally  presented  at  the  first  din- 
ner over  which  their  returned  landlady  (who  had  so 
nobly  devoted  herself  to  the  dying  hours  of  an  aristo- 
cratic brother-in-law)  should  hereafter  preside. 

"  Here's  your  room,  'Livia,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
after  she  and  her  niece  had  ascended  two  flights 
of  stairs  together,  and  entered  a  well-furnished,  thor- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  107 

onghly  comfortable-looking  chamber  in  the  rear  of  the 
house.  "It's  southern  exposure,  you  know,  an'  there's 
a  fire-place  f'r  a  fire  whenever  you  want  one.  I'm  so 
glad,  dear,  that  I  can  see  my  way  to  lettin'  you  have 
it.  It  was  Mr.  Ab'nethy's  an'  I'm  glad  he  went  while 
I  was  to  your  poor  pa's.  He's  one  o'  the  mos*  tryin' 
boarders,  Mr.  Ab'nethy,  I've  ever  had  since  I've  been 
in  this  line  o'  liviri'.  Towels!  He  used  seven  a  day! 
He  was  English,  an'  had  a  tub  that  he  flounced  round 
in  so  ev'ry  mornin'  it  woke  Miss  Pank,  who's  got  the 
hall  bedroom  jus'  next  to  this  (you  see,  I've  stuffed  up 
all  the  cracks  o'  the  door),  an'  brought  on  her  neural- 
lerga  that  she  gets  bein'  a  gov'ness,  poor  thing;  she 
can  only  afford  me  eight  dollars  a  week  —  though  she 
pays  it  ev'ry  Saturday  so  reg'lar!  An'  then  Ab'- 
nethy's airs!  Why,  I  pride  myself  on  givin'  hearty 
breakfasts  to  's  many  as  wants  'em ;  but  he  called  him. 
self  an  inv'lid,  an'  yet  he'd  ring  his  bell 's  late  as  'leven 
o'clock  over-night  to  find  out  w'ether  ther  'd  be  grid- 
dle-cakes or  not  the  next  mornin'.  An'  eggs !  Wy, 
if  an  egg  was  too  yeller  to  suit  him  he'd  say  't  was 
green,  an'  if  't  wasn't  yeller  enough  he  'd  say  there 
was  the  commencement  of  a  chicken  in  it,  an'  .  .  ." 

"Does  Ida  Strang  have  as  large  a  room  as  this?" 
asked  Olivia,  while  she  looked  about  her,  uncon- 
sciously breaking  in  upon  the  details  of  Mr.  Aber- 
nethy's  peculiarities. 

" Oh,  about"  answered  Mrs.  Ottarson,  suddenly,  at 
her  wit's  end  for  a  beneficent  and  pacifying  falsehood. 
"Let's  see  .  .  .  hers  hasn't  got  jus'  the  same  closet 
'commodations,  p'rhaps,  but  I  guess  yours  an'  hers 
would  pretty  much  tally.  Wy  do  you  ask  t/tat} 
'Livia  ?  " 


108  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  was  the  reply.  This  apartment 
struck  Olivia  as  being  rather  beyond  the  deserts  of 
her  new  position  and  prospective  salary.  But  she 
knew  so  little  concerning  such  matters;  it  was  easy 
enough  to  deceive  her. 

Mrs.  Ottarson  meanwhile  hurried  on,  with  great 
hidden  desire  to  change  the  subject:  "You'll  come 
to  dinner,  'Livia  ?  you  needn't  if  you  don't  feel 
'xactly  up  to  it.  You  can  have  it  here  jus'  's 
well  's  not.  Now,  do  tell  me  w'ich  you'd  rather 
do." 

"Oh,  I'll  appear  at  dinner,"  said  Olivia.  She 
glanced  at  her  trunks,  already  deposited  in  the  room. 
"I  shall  unpack  a  little,  and  then  I  shall  be  quite 
ready.  Dinner  is  at  six  o'clock,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ottarson's  boarders  dined  in  the  basement. 
When  she  first  took  possession  of  the  house  she  had 
pondered  the  question  of  whether  it  would  be  prefer- 
able to  have  one  large  table  in  this  room  or  small  ones 
scattered  about.  The  latter  arrangement  was  more 
advisable  from  the  standpoint  of  pure  fashion,  but 
there  was  a  sociability  in  the  former  for  which  no 
amount  of  elegance  could  compensate.  "  Oh,  it's 
tonier  to  have  'em  —  I  allow  that"  Mrs.  Ottarson 
had  said  of  the  small  tables  to  a  friend  who  coun- 
selled her  adoption  of  them.  "  But  I've  been  so  'cus- 
tomed,  somehow,  t'  look  on  my  boarders  's  if  they 
were  friends  an'  relations.  B'sides,  I  like  to  sit  at 
the  head  o'  my  own  table  an'  do  the  soup-helpin'  an' 
the  carvin'.  There's  something  kind  o'  human  about 
that ;  but  I  can't  see  as  there  is  when  the  lady  o'  the 
house  takes  her  victuals  off  somewheres  alone  an' 
leaves  her  boarders  to  sep'rate  in  comp'nies,  one 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  109 

table   pnttin'  on   airs,  to   the   next   an'  another   gos- 
sipin'  about  'em  both." 

There  was  not  a  single  vacant  seat  at  the  long  table 
this  evening,  by  a  quarter  past  six  o'clock.  Such  a 
full  attendance  was  rare  in  the  extreme.  Even  young 
Tredgett,  who  worked  so  hard  "  down  town "  and 
would  often  appear  as  late  as  seven,  or  possibly  a 
quarter  past,  giving  Ann  and  Bridget  the  trouble  of 
keeping  three  or  four  plates  hot  for  him  (and,  it  must 
be  added,  now  and  then  smelling  of  something  very 
like  whiskey  cocktails,  in  a  manner  that  suggested 
more  pleasurable  detaining  causes  than  those  of  a 
mercantile  character) — even  young  Tredgett  man- 
aged to  be  present  on  this  highly  memorable  occasion. 
Olivia  had  slipped  into  the  place  which  Mrs.  Ottarson 
had  provided,  on  her  own  right.  The  girl  had  sup- 
posed that  her  presence  would  hardly  be  more  than 
just  noticed ;  but  here  she  speedily  found  herself  to 
be  quite  wrong.  This  was  the  aristocratic  niece  at 
whose  father's  death-bed  their  landlady  had  been 
performing  her  ministrant  offices.  Only  yesterday 
morning  the  society  column  in  the  N~ew  York  As- 
teroid had  mentioned  his  death,  and  added  feelingly 
that  it  would  throw  some  of  our  first  families  into 
mourning.  Of  course  Olivia  must  not  merely  be 
stared  at,  but  pulled  to  pieces  in  a  visual  sense  by 
the  little  soulless  corporation  of  the  dinner-table. 
She  soon  became  sorry  that  she  had  not  dined  up- 
stairs in  her  own  room,  after  all.  Still,  the  general 
growing  babble  of  conversation  served  her,  before 
long,  like  a  friendly  agent.  If  not  forgotten  by  the 
small  community  all  about  her,  she  was  at  least  tem- 
porarily ignored.  She  had  asked  her  aunt  to  present 


110  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

her  to  nobody  for  that  evening,  and  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
readily  perceptive  and  congenial  as  to  the  motive  of 
such  request,  had  freely  granted  it.  Meanwhile  she 
listened,  with  sensations  in  which  alarm  had  begun  to 
play  a  stealthy  part.  Her  aunt's  errors  and  short- 
comings, both  of  grammar  and  taste,  had  weeks  ago 
ceased  to  disconcert  her;  they  were  the  mistakes  of 
one  whose  heart  was  nobility  and  fidelity,  however 
deep  a  few  flaws  of  the  surface  might  seem  to  a 
casual  eye.  But  thus  far  her  acquaintanceship  with 
Mrs.  Ottarson  had  stood  for  the  girl's  one  encounter 
with  meagre  and  feeble  human  culture.  What  she  now 
listened  to  would  not,  \mder  different  circumstances, 
have  proved  uninteresting ;  she  was  naturally  fond  of 
watching  various  bents  or  oddities  in  the  dispositions 
and  temperaments  of  her  fellows ;  to  shrink  from  an 
attentive  scrutiny  of  the  unrefined  lay  wholly  outside 
of  her  antipathies.  She  might  have  enjoyed  listening 
and  observing  at  present  with  the  zest  that  all  novelty 
of  this  description  brings  to  a  healthy  and  robust 
young  mind,  were  it  not  for  the  furtive  but  insistent 
thought  that  she  had  undertaken  to  dwell  among  these 
people  and  accept  them  as  her  future  companions  and 
associates. 

The  talk  had  grown  merrily  jocose.  A  certain  Mr. 
Spillington  was  speaking  a  good  deal,  by  this  time, 
and  his  pleasantries  provoked  great  applausive  mirth. 
He  was  one  of  the  important  boarders ;  he  and  his 
wife  paid  thirty-five  dollars  a  week  for  a  second-story 
room.  He  was  a  large,  portly  man,  with  nebulous, 
bulging,  flaxen  whiskers,  and  a  prominent  nose  that 
shone  with  a  waxy  pinkness  above  his  wide,  ever- 
smiling  lips.  He  held  a  position  of  superintendence 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  Ill 

in  a  noted  Eighth  Avenue  dry-goods  emporium,  not 
far  away.  Some  of  the  ladies  who  now  sat  at  meat 
with  him  had  received  the  honor  of  his  most  impres- 
sive civilities  when  "shopping"  within  his  august 
radius.  He  had  a  little,  pale,  narrow-chested  wife 
at  his  side,  who  thought  him  a  prince  of  wits  and  a 
flower  of  manliness,  and  whom  he  could  have  taken 
in  his  arms  and  tossed  like  a  baby  without  the  least 
muscular  effort.  She  pretended  to  be  shocked  at 
nearly  everything  he  said,  but  kept  her  eyes  inces- 
santly rolling  to  left  and  right  whenever  he  aired  his 
humorous  powers,  for  the  evident  purpose  of  ascer- 
taining what  risible  havoc  they  created.  Now  and 
then  she  would  exclaim,  in  a  tenuous,  piping  treble : 
"  Sam,  do  stop ! "  But  there  was  a  world  of  shy, 
covert  pride  in  this  remonstrance,  which  had  become 
as  habitual  with  the  poor,  devotedly  uxorious  lady  as 
the  sleepy  trill  of  a  sick  bird  to  its  more  vigorous  and 
songful  mate. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we've  been  kicking  up  our  heels  here  in  a 
tremendous  way  while  you've  been  gone,  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son,"  Mr.  Spillington  was  sonorously  exclaiming.  He 
had  a  bass  voice  of  untold  capacity,  and  he  now  made 
this  organ  felt  in  its  full  volume.  "Drowle,  don't 
you  remember  that  night  I  got  you  so  drunk  on  lager- 
beer  that  you  opened  one  of  the  parlor  windows  and 
called  in  an  organ-grinder  to  give  us  a  Virginia-reel?" 

This  flight  of  invention  was  hailed  with  noisy  laugh- 
ter. The  young  gentleman  thus  daringly  addressed 
would  soon  be  ordained  as  a  minister,  and  the  scandal- 
ous fiction  caused  blushes  to  bathe  his  timid,  beardless 
face. 

"  I  guess  I  don't  remember,"  he  burst  forth,  with  a 


112  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

nervous  titter,  the  moment  that  silence  had  been  re- 
stored, "  and  I  guess  you  don't,  either." 

This  was  not  strong  as  repartee.  Everybody  saw 
that  Mr.  Drowle  was  painfully  embarrassed.  Miss 
Pank,  the  visiting  governess,  who  sat  next  him,  leaned 
her  head  in  his  direction  till  one  of  her  pendent  front 
curls  (which  it  had  been  spitefully  said  of  her  that  she 
wore  in  defiance  of  the  reigning  mode  because  there 

O  O 

was  a  large  amber  wart  on  one  of  her  cheeks,  close  to 
the  ear)  almost  dipped  its  hyacinthine  end  into  the 
gravy  on  her  neighbor's  plate. 

"There's  such  a  thing,  I  think,  as  carrying  jokes  a 
little  too  far,"  whispered  Miss  Pank,  and  the  soon- 
to-be  Reverend  Mr.  Drowle  shot  her  a  grateful  glance 
over  one  of  his  burning  cheeks. 

"  Mercy  sakes ! "  now  hurried  Mrs.  Ottarson  ;  "  you 
don't  s'pose,  Mr.  Spillington,  that  I'm  goin'  to  b'lieve' 
you  left  poor  Mr.  Drowle  ''nough  beer  to  get  intoxi- 
cated on  ?  Not  you,  sir !  I've  seen  you  toss  off  too 
many  pitcherf uls  to  be  gammoned  that  way." 

There  was  a  certain  Mr.  Sti'uthers,  who  had  given 
a  wild  guffaw  of  delight  at  the  end  of  Mr.  Spilling- 
ton's  last  speech,  and  he  gave  another  wild  guffaw 
now.  He  was  much  pitted  with  small-pox,  and  had 
beady  black  eyes  and  the  slimmest  of  necks,  with  an 
"  Adam's-apple "  that  looked  like  a  ligneous  excres- 
cence on  a  slender  tree.  Every  time  that  he  gave  his 
hilarious  laugh,  the  "Adam's-apple"  would  take  a 
little  upward  bound,  as  though  it  were  some  sort  of 
curious  machine  for  measuring  the  degrees  of  humor 
reached  by  any  occupant  of  Mrs.  Ottarson's  boarding- 
house. 

A  plump,  cherubic  maiden,  with  a  mouth   like   a 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE  113 

rosebud  and  two  dimples  looking  like  tiny  bees  that 
had  come  to  sip  honey  from  so  tempting  a  flower,  sat 
next  to  Mr.  Struthers.  This  was  his  betrothed, 
Serena  Sugby,  the  daughter  of  the  well-known  author- 
ess, Aurelia  Sugby,  who  detested  the  jocund  Mr. 
Spillington,  and  prided  herself  on  having  more  than 
once  disastrously  worsted  him  in  a  battle  of  tongues. 
Serena,  a  very  lambkin  of  pranksomeness  beside  her 
dignified  and  almost  funereal  mother,  lifted  one  fat 
little  hand  and  began  to  slap  her  laughter-convulsed 
lover  between  his  shoulder-blades. 

"  Serena ! "  remonstrated  her  mother,  in  severest 
undertone,  "  when  will  you  learn  the  simplest  rudi- 
ments of  lady-like  deportment?"  And  then,  while 
Serena  giggled  penitently  and  smoothed  her  canary- 
colored  bang,  Mrs.  Sugby  exchanged  a  glance  of 
mutual  disgust  across  the  table  with  her  friend,  Miss 
Pank. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  continued  Mr.  Spillington,  rumina- 
tive and  incorrigible ;  "  we've  had  some  famous  old 
times,  Mrs.  Ottarson,  while  we've  been  running  the 
house  ourselves.  I  suppose  I'd  better  not  say  any- 
thing about  the  surprise-party  we  gave  Mrs.  Sugby, 
one  night,  in  her  own  room." 

"  Sam,  do  stop  ! "  twittered  his  wife,  rolling  her  eyes 
to  this  side  and  that,  as  if  determined  on  seeing  just 
who  appreciatively  laughed  and  who  did  not. 

Mrs.  Aurelia  Sugby  stiffened  herself.  She  abomi- 
nated Mi\  Spillington,  but  she  had  always  regarded 
him  as  a  person  to  be  "  put  down "  without  much 
difficulty.  She  was  the  well-known  Aurelia  Sugby, 
author  of  "Beryline,  the  Babe  of  Sorrow;"  "Bertha, 
or  the  Bride  of  an  Afternoon  ; "  "  Teresa,  the  Type- 


114  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

writing  Girl,"  and  many  other  fictional  works  of  an 
astounding  popularity,  as  the  editors  of  the  weekly 
journals  in  which  they  had  run  serially  for  the  delight 
of  innumerable  avid  readers,  could  plainly  testify. 
She  bore  no  resemblance  whatever  to  her  blonde, 
mettlesome  little  daughter.  She  was  dark,  emaci- 
ated, with  a  lantern  jaw  and  a  thin-lipped,  disputa- 
tious mouth.  She  had  a  great  opinion  of  herself. 
The  editor  of  the  New  York  Fireside  Friend  had 
made  a  contract  with  her  to  furnish  him  two  con- 
tinued stories  a  year,  one  sprightly  sketch  ("  with 
plenty  of  love  in  it")  every  week,  and  a  fortnightly 
poem  "  thrown  in,"  for  a  remarkably  handsome  annual 
sum.  The  poem  was  to  be  as  much  as  possible  like 
that  piece  of  lyrical  work  which  she  had  once  written, 
and  made  such  an  immense  hit  by  writing,  entitled 
"  Only  the  Baby's  Empty  Shoe."  She  had  followed 
up  this  classic  stroke  of  success  by  "Only  a  Mother's 
Tear,"  "Only  a  Cradle  Void,"  and  "Only  a  Wee 
White  Sock ; "  but  somehow  none  of  these  latter  cre- 
ations had  achieved  the  wide  vogue  of  the  first.  Her 
verse  was  said  to  touch  the  popular  heart,  and  like 
certain  other  verse  of  the  same  reputed  efficacy,  it  was 
quite  remorseless  in  rhyming  "sound  "  with  "brown," 
or  "slumber"  with  "under."  But  the  popular  heart 
had  beaten  no  less  responsively  to  it  on  that  account. 

Bold  Mr.  Spillington  was  not  to  be  dismayed.  In 
previous  conflicts  with  Mrs.  Sugby  he  had  always  pre- 
served his  temper,  which  is  considerably  more  than  she 
had  done.  For  this  reason,  if  for  no  other,  he  had 
believed  himself  repeatedly  to  have  been  the  victor. 
He  now  said,  with  his  broadest  smile,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Ottarson : 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  115 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  very  fine  affair  —  very,  indeed.  It 
was  a  masquerade." 

Up  darted  Mr.  Struthers's  "  Adam's-apple,"  and  a 
roar  left  his  lips,  followed  by  a  choking  sound.  His 
fiancee^  forgetful  of  all  past  injunctions,  gleefully  lifted 
her  clenched  rosy  fist,  and  pounded  him  five  or  six 
times  on  the  back,  as  though  the  performance  were 
great  sport,  and  at  the  same  time  a  matter  of  distinct 
duty.  Her  mother  was  too  absorbed  for  the  usual  ad- 
monitory "  Serena !  "  this  time.  She  was  indeed  bent 
upon  the  overthrow  of  the  audacious  Mr.  Spillington. 

"  Ah  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  sepulchral  blandness.  "  A 
masquerade  in  my  apartment,  sir  ?  And,  pray,  what 
sort  of  a  masquerade  ?  " 

This  was  precisely  the  opportunity  by  which  Mr. 
Spillington's  diabolic  fun-poking  was  balefully  stimu- 
lated. As  he  prepared  to  answer,  Mrs.  Ottarson 
struck  in,  with  joviality,  but  with  a  vocal  note  of  seri- 
ousness also :  — 

"  Now  jus'  look  here,  Sam  Spillington  (you  limb, 
you !),  stop  this  tomfool'ry  !  Try  your  nonsense  on 
somebody  that  enjoys  it.  Do  's  I  tell  you  ! " 

"Mrs.  Sugby  seemed  to  enjoy  it  very  much,"  as- 
serted Mr.  Spillington,  as  he  gave  one  of  his  big, 
vapory  whiskers  a  swift  twirling  stroke.  "  That  is,  if 
you  mean  our  surprise-masquerade.  The  costumes 
were  all  so  well-chosen.  You've  heard  of  Charles 
Dickens  parties,  of  course.  This  was  an  Aurelia  J. 
Sugby  party.  We  all  dressed  like  characters  from  our 
esteemed  friend's  favorite  works  of  fiction.  Struthers, 
there,  he  went  as  Del  Monte,  the  heavy  Spanish  vil- 
lain in  ...  what  is  the  name  of  that  most  exciting 
romance?  And  Drowle,  poor  fellow,  he  was  Claribel, 


116  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

the  Sewing-Macbine  Girl.  His  figure  was  just  slender 
enough  to  suit  the  female  get-up,  and  then  we  curled 
his  hair,  and  parted  it  in  the  middle,  so  that.  ..." 

But  Mr.  Spillington's  voice  was  now  drowned  by 
tumultuous  peals  of  laughter.  Olivia  sat  and  won- 
dered what  they  had  heard  to  plunge  them  in  such 
ecstasies  of  mirth.  She  felt,  on  her  own  side,  merely 
the  discordant  condemnation  of  one  who  sees  the 
shafts  fly  from  an  insolent  personality,  reckless  how 
deep  they  pierce.  She  had  not  been  prepossessed  by 
Mrs.  Aurelia  Sugby;  few  people  ever  were.  But  she 
now  became  conscious  of  a  kind  of  sympathy  with  that 
lady's  grimness  and  acidity,  as  the  latter,  having  waited 
for  a  pause  in  the  prevailing  clamor,  somewhat 
hoarsely  said : 

*'  You  exhibit,  sir,  a  most  exact  familiarity  with  my 
published  works,  truly !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Spillington,  with  that 
temerity  by  which  the  over-indulged  humorist  will  tell 
how  dizzying  an  elixir  applause  can  brew  him,  "  I  as- 
sure you,  madam,  that  I  read  the  Blood-and-  Thunder 
Gazette  every  Saturday  night." 

"  Sam,  do  stop  ! "  bleated  his  wife.  .  .  .  But  her  roll- 
ing eyes  could  now  detect  few  signs  of  amusement  on 
the  various  faces  they  swept.  Mr.  Spillington,  like  all 
jokers  who  serve  the  capricious  approval  of  the  min- 
ute, had  for  once  over-shot  his  mark.  His  last  sally 
had  fallen  pointlessly  flat.  Mrs.  Sugby's  admiring 
readers  were  not  in  the  minority  this  evening.  It  was 
well  enough  playfully  to  antagonize  her,  but  to  hurl 
scorn  at  her  luminous  talent  was  quite  another  posture. 
Even  Mr.  Struthers,  oblivious  of  his  guffaw,  refrained 
from  a  smile,  and  if  the  up-springing  of  his  "  Adam's- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  117 

apple  "  was  to  be  calculated  on  as  an  indication  of  Mr. 
Spillington's  triumph  or  defeat,  its  fixity  now  conveyed 
but  a  single  sombre  meaning. 

Mrs.  Sugby's  field  of  attack  was  ready  for  the  mar- 
shalling of  her  forces.  She  made  no  delay  ;  her  sober 
eyes  kindled  with  an  uncompromising  spark,  and  the 
smile  that  touched  her  lips  had  the  gleam  in  it  of  a 
naked  blade. 

"  I  do  not  write  for  the  journal  you  have  mentioned, 
sir,"  she  said,  amid  the  silence  which  had  ensued.  "  I 
haven't  ever  even  perused  that  periodical,  as  I'm  aware 
of.  I  presume  you  find  time  to  do  so,  sir,  but  if  you'll 
allow  me  to  express  myself  free  on  that  point,  I  think 
it  would  be  much  more  suitable  if  you  perused,  instead, 
a  book  on  the  manners  of  good  society." 

"  How  scorchingly  sarcastic  !  "  whispered  Miss  Pank 
to  Mr.  Drowle,  as  a  stillness  followed  these  inimical 
words. 

Mr.  Spillington  did  not  appear  to  think  so,  however. 
"  Are  you  the  author  of  such  a  book,  madam  ?  "  he  in- 
quired. "  I  didn't  know  you  went  into  good  society." 
Here  he  gave  a  voluminous  cough,  and  added,  as  soon 
as  its  accompanying  throat  spasm  would  permit :  "  That 
is  ...  a  ...  of  course,  in  your  writings,  I  should 
say.  I  supposed  you  confined  yourself  mostly  to  low 
life." 

Even  the  amiable  Serena  had  by  this  time  become 
incensed.  "  LOAV  life  !  "  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  her 
mother,  as  though  shocked  by  a  charge  so  grievous. 
"Why,  ma,  your  Coralie  Talbot  Montmorency  in 
'  Bertha,  or  the  Bride  of  an  Afternoon,'  is  one  of  the 
greatest  heiresses  in  England." 

"  My  dear,"  said  her  mother,  throwing  a  glance  of 


118  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

untold  contumely  upon  Mr.  Spillington,  "  the  gentle- 
man doesn't  read  my  works.  He  hasn't  time.  He's 
too  busy  among  the  other  man-milliners  and  counter- 
jumpers  at  Bigsbee  and  Company's,  in  Eighth 
Avenue." 

Abusiveness  could  hardly  go  further  than  this.  But 
so  far  Mrs.  Sugby  had,  nevertheless,  won  the  day. 
The  suppressed  murmur  that  greeted  her  bludgeon- 
flinging  sentence  was  one  chiefly  of  approbation.  She 
had  defended  her  intellectual  offspring,  the  treasured 
produce  of  her  brain-labor.  More  than  one  lady  or 
gentleman  present  had  flushed  over  the  perils  of  Bery- 
line  or  of  Bertha. 

But  Mrs.  Ottarson  here  dashed  in  between  the  com- 
batants. She  showed  herself  the  most  belligerent  of 
peace-makers.  Her  black  eyes  flashed  savagely  at  Mr. 
Spillington.  "You're  served  jus'  right!"  she  cried. 
"  You  began  it  all,  an'  you've  only  got  your  dues." 
Then  to  Mrs.  Sugby :  "  But  don't  you  say  'nother 
word,  ma'am.  We've  had  'nough  wranglin',  I  guess, 
for  one  evening."  Then,  finally,  to  both :  "  If  either 
of  you  does  begin  again,  Pll  up  'n  leave  the  room,  an' 
take  my  niece,  here,  along  with  me.  A  pretty  piece 
of  goin's-on  for  my  first  night  home  and  her  first  'pear- 
ance  't  my  table !  " 

Olivia,  coloring,  bit  her  lip.  This  allusion  to  herself 
fired  in  her  a  new  pride,  and  made  an  inward  voice 
sound  to  her,  as  if  saying  that  she  had  no  place  among 
men  and  women  stamped  with  such  coarseness  as  she 
had  already  witnessed  here.  But  self-reproach  quickly 
overcame  that  impetuous  little  secret  vaunt ;  it  seemed 
like  disloyalty  to  the  aunt  who  had  saved  her  from  a 
far  worse  indignity  —  that  of  becoming  a  pensioner,  a 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  119 

dependent,  a  recipient  of  doled-out  alms  from  others. 
The  greater  and  worthier  pride  in  her  sped  to  destroy 
the  lesser  and  meaner  one. 

But  still  she  remained  keenly  discomforted.  It 
rushed  through  her  anxious  mind,  while  the  battle  be- 
tween Mrs.  Sugby  and  Mr.  Spillington  threatened  at 
any  instant  to  break  the  bounds  of  their  landlady's  au- 
thoritative reprimand  : 

"  How  can  I  endure  living  among  people  like  this  ? 
Are  not  their  world  and  my  world  thousands  of  miles 
apart  ?  What  would  poor  papa  say  if  he  could  know 
now  that  I  have  drifted  into  these  surroundings  ?  And 
how  can  I  bear  myself  among  them  ?  Even  if  I  go 
on,  with  as  much  bravery  and  control  as  I  can  possibly 
muster,  shall  I  not  in  the  end  make  the  dreariest  fail- 
ure of  it  all  ?  " 

Meanwhile,  whether  betokening  an  enforced  armis- 
tice, or  only  the  ominous  calm  that  precedes  a  more 
desperate  engagement,  there  had  fallen  over,  the  entire 
dinner-table  that  lull  which  is  so  much  more  significant 
when  it  comes  after  the  flurry  and  turmoil  of  a  heated 
skirmish. 


120  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


VII. 

BUT  Mrs.  Ottarson  had  carried  her  point.  With  a 
rather  embarrassed  giggle,  which  bespoke  coercive 
surrender,  Mr.  Spillington  subsided  beneath  the  last 
scathing  coup  de  grace  of  Mrs.  Sugby.  A  buzz  of  talk 
now  succeeded,  from  whose  complex  web  could  no 
doubt  have  been  unravelled  many  different  opinions 
concerning  the  recent  passage-at-arms.  But  the  gen- 
eral decision  went  against  Mr.  Spillington. 

"  Your  husband  will  have  to  apologize  to  Mrs. 
Sugby,"  said  a  certain  Mrs.  Disosway,  who  sat  next  to 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Spillington  and  now  addressed  that 
lady.  Mrs.  Disosway  abhorred  the  late  assailant  of 
the  celebrated  authoress ;  he  was  always  cracking  his 
inane  jokes  at  somebody's  expense  ;  he  had  once  pre- 
sumed to  crack  one  of  them  at  hers.  She  was  a  sort 
of  concert-singer  and  had  been  an  operatic  prima 
donna  before  that,  and  he  had  asked  her,  one  day, 
when  she  spoke  with  fervor  of  how  deep  and  fond 
were  her  hopes  of  heaven,  whether  she  expected  to 
meet  her  lost  voice  there.  This  was  a  view  of  celes- 
tial benignancy  which  Mrs.  Disosway  had  not  felt  at 
all  inclined  to  take.  She  did  not  by  any  means  regard 
her  vocal  proficiency  in  the  light  of  a  departed  bless- 
ing. She  was  a  stout,  sallow  woman,  with  an  apocry- 
phal look  about  the  lustrous  black  of  her  fancifully  dis- 
posed tresses,  and  a  pair  of  eyebrows  that  had  the 
appearance  of  having  been  ruthlessly  burnt  off  at  their 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  121 

roots,  leaving  only  two  pale,  smoke-colored  arches  to 
contrast  with  the  copious  coiffure  above  them.  She 
was  undoubtedly  very  decayed  and  artificial  to  con- 
template, and  it  did  not  require  much  imagination  on 
the  part  of  any  one  who  cai-efully  observed  her  to 
decide  that  perhaps  an  organ  of  the  most  worn  and 
precarious  quality  might  lie  below  her  tallowy  and 
sagging  lips. 

~~          O  L 

"My  husband  will  have  to  apologize?"  appealed 
Mrs.  Spill'mgton,  with  her  wan  face  drawn  into  lines 
of  the  most  incredulous  disdain.  "  Dear  me !  I'd 
like  to  know  why  !  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  why,"  retoi'ted  Mrs.  Disosway, 
grandly,  "  if  you  really  would  like  to  know.  He  spoke 
most  insultingly  to  Mrs.  Sugby." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  fumed  Mrs.  Spillington.  "  I  guess  you 
don't  know  my  Sam,  if  you  think  he'd  bemean  himself 
like  that,  when  it  was  only  a  joke,  and  she  understood 
it  was  only  one.  .  .  .  And  to  insinuate  that  my  Sam 
was  a  man-milliner  and  a  counter-jumper  !  She  might 
better  apologize  ! " 

"  She  didn't  insinuate  it  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Disosway. 
"  She  stated  it,  in  just  so  many  words,  Mrs.  Spil- 
lington." 

"Yes,  she  did"  struck  in  a  gentleman  with  a  dense 
fall  of  long  iron-gray  hair  that  surged  quite  imparted 
from  a  bloodless  face,  and  who  sat  on  Mrs.  Disosway's 
other  side.  He  was  a  spiritualist,  and  his  ardent 
faith  in  the  materializations  wrought  by  Katy  Convoy, 
the  last  mediumistic  idol  of  the  hour,  had  been  smitten 
by  the  jeers  of  Mr.  Spillington.  "It  seems  to  me, 
ma'am,  begging  your  pardon,  that  I  never  saw  any- 
body as  well  laid  out  as  your  husband  was  a  few 


122  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

minutes  ago.  And  you  may  tell  him  that,  with  my 
compliments." 

Mrs.  Spillington  showed  two  rows  of  large  and  not 
flawless  teeth,  which  her  small,  wilted  face,  with  its 
unhealthy  tints,  did  not  make  less  unfortunate  as  the 
kind  of  disclosure  brought  about  by  her  bantering 
and  twitting  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  won't  tell  my  Sam  anything  with 
your  compliments,  Mr.  Smear.  If  there's  any  talk 
about  laying  anybody  out  you  might  recollect  what 
quick  work  he  once  made  with  your  ghosts  and  spirits 
and  things." 

Mrs.  Disosway  and  Mr.  Smear  put  their  heads  to- 
gether in  low  laughter  of  vast  irony.  "  Quick  work !  " 
whispered  Mrs.  Disosway  in  the  large  ear  of  her 
companion,  with  its  big  cartilaginous  flange,  that  kept 
the  torrent  of  gray  locks  from  breaking  bounds  and 
inundating  the  clean-shorn,  bluish  cheek.  "Oh,  to 
think,  Mr.  Smear,  of  that  midget  trifling  so  with  the 
great  truths  of  Eliphalet  K.  Tomlinson  and  Cynthia 
Jarvis  Duryea,  as  we  know  them!  Isn't  it  too  pitiful?" 

Mr.  Smear  looked  as  if  he  thought  it  was  quite  too 
pitiful.  Mrs.  Disosway  had  "assisted"  at  several 
seances  held  by  both  the  just-named  mediums,  in 
Mr.  Smear's  company,  and  she  had  also  heard  Mrs. 
Cynthia  Jarvis  Duryea  in  a  trance-lecture.  The  ex- 
prima-donna  thought  it  really  unfortunate  that  Mr. 
Smear,  on  such  occasions,  should  wear  that  gray 
shawl,  fastened  at  one  shoulder  by  that  tarnished- 
looking  buckle,  instead  of  the  more  conventional  over- 
coat. Still,  his  acquaintance  had  been  a  source  of 
such  comfort  to  her !  Had  he  not  been  the  means  of 
opening  her  soul  to  the  marvels  of  spiritualism  and  of 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  123 

bringing  her  into  contact  with  her  deceased  second 
husband  ?  The  late  Mr.  Disosway  had  not,  it  is  true, 
proved  a  model  spouse;  still,  communications  from  him 
in  a  dark  room  under  conditions  of  a  truly  awful 
solemnity,  had  cast  an  idealizing  glamour  over  the 
hard  fact  of  his  having  conducted  himself  like  a 
reprobate  for  several  years  previous  to  his  entrance 
into  the  summer  land. 

But  Mr.  Spillington,  like  all  persons  who  volunteer 
amusement  of  a  mercilessly  disrespectful  kind,  had  se- 
cured adherents  and  supporters.  There  were  toes  under 
Mrs.  Ottarson's  mahogany,  this  evening,  on  which  the 
coltish  hoof  of  his  so-termed  humor  had  not  yet  trod- 
den. Hence  a  certain  share  of  the  loquacious  bustle 
that  now  prevailed  was  not  adverse  to  him ;  it  excused 
him  on  the  ground  of  *'  not  meaning  anything  but  his 
fun,  you  know,"  and  of  "  only  wanting  to  wake  us  all  up." 

Mrs.  Ottarson,  having  laid  the  tempest,  tried  to 
diffuse  forgetfulness  of  its  ended  rage.  Of  necessity, 
her  efforts  were  restricted  to  a  minor  audience,  and  it 
is  possible  that  overheard  semi-tones  of  criticism  might 
have  spurred  the  quieted  contestants  into  a  fresh  duel 
of  wits,  had  not  the  arrival  of  dessert  brought  with  it 
the  time  for  presenting  that  fond  testimonial  of  the 
silver-plated  pitcher  which  was  to  terminate  this  ex- 
ceptional repast. 

It  was  a  most  unsuitable  hour  for  such  presentation. 
Mr.  Spillington,  as  the  only  inmate  of  the  boarding 
house  who  possessed  the  least  oratorio  talent,  had  been 
chosen  to  offer  the  gift,  with  some  kind  of  apt  accom- 
panying speech.  Meanwhile  the  pitcher  itself  had 
been  placed  in  charge  of  a  Mrs.  Tingle,  a  little  wiry 
lady,  with  a  tiny  pair  of  glasses  forever  on  her  tiny 


124  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

near-sighted  eyes,  and  a  gown  that  always  looked  as 
if  it  were  about  actually  to  touch  the  floor,  but  never 
did  so,  swinging  nimbly  clear  of  any  such  contact 
with  an  oscillation  that  suggested  unforsaken  crino- 
line. Mrs.  Tingle  had  a  passion  for  economy,  and  it 
was  agony  for  her  to  hear  of  any  article  having  been 
purchased  at  a  dime  lower  than  she  could  herself 
obtain  it  elsewhere.  Hence,  when  the  question  of  the 
pitcher  arose,  she  sturdily  fought  against  its  being 
procured  up-town.  She  knew  a  shop  in  Maiden  Lane 
where  you  could  get  plated  ware  so  cheap  that  it  was 
a  positive  sin  not  to  go  there.  She  had  got  her  own 
water-pitcher  there ;  you  could  see  it  engirt  with 
bric-a-brac  on  the  adjustable  bedstead  in  her  apart- 
ment, when  that  harmless  incarnation  of  domestic 
hypocrisy  was  trying  to  pass  itself  off  as  the  most 
undeceitful  of  side-boards.  She  had  carried  her  point, 
and  a  pitcher  almost  the  duplicate  of  her  own  had 
been  found  in  Maiden  Lane.  As  the  servants  were 
beginning  to  pass  round  the  oranges,  Mr.  Spillington 
made  a  sign  to  her,  and  she  slipped  away  from  the 
table,  hurrying  upstairs.  She  had  been  a  good  deal 
flustered  by  the  late  disturbance,  thinking  it  in  horri- 
ble taste  on  both  sides,  but  having  a  partisan  feeling 
of  indulgence  for  Mr.  Spillington,  whom  she  con- 
sidered such  a  "comical,  funning  gentleman,"  and 
"the  life  of  the  house."  When  she  had  regained  her 
seat,  with  a  very  tell-tale  bulge  in  the  shawl  that  she 
had  thrown  over  her  slim  shoulders,  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
whose  attention  had  been  roused  by  her  xinwonted 
proceedings,  would  probably  have  addressed  her  con- 
cerning them,  if  Mr.  Spillington,  sensationally  clearing 
his  throat,  had  not  now  risen. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  125 

He  commenced  an  address  to  Mrs.  Ottarson,  in 
which  rhetoric  was  called  upon  for  her  most  flowery 
and  prismatic  tributes.  He  spoke  of  their  landlady's 
beaming  visage  having  dawned  once  more  upon  the 
expectant  gaze  of  her  boarders  like  a  long-clouded 
sun  through  envious  but  relenting  vapors.  He  com- 
pared her  genial  spirits  to  the  blandness  of  a  spring 
morning,  and  her  matronly  charms  of  person  to  the 
mellow  richness  of  a  midsummer  afternoon.  At  this 
stage  in  the  complimentary  harangue,  his  wife's  eyes 
rolled  from  one  face  to  another  with  a  magnificent 
pride  in  the  sonorous  periods  of  her  lord.  Once  or 
twice  the  poor  little  lady's  lips  moved  as  though  she 
were  about  to  utter  her  time-honored  remonstrance  of 
"  Sam,  do  stop  ! "  But  she  was  saved  from  the  dire 
un fitness  of  such  ejaculation  by  an  opportune  access 
of  common-sense,  and  went  on  rolling  her  eyes  instead 
of  indulging  in  the  old  playful  comment.  And  now 
Mr.  Spillington  waxed  still  more  picturesque,  blending 
pathos  with  his  florid  imageries.  Mrs.  Ottarson,  the 
well-beloved  custodian  of  their  daily  comforts,  had 
gracefully,  and  almost  at  a  moment's  notice,  exchanged 
the  horn  of  hospitable  plenty,  whose  contents  had  been 
so  freely  poured  upon  these,  her  admiring  friends 
for  the  ...  for  the  (he  cleared  his  throat  a  great 
deal  just  here,  as  even  the  noblest  orators  will  occa- 
sionally do  when  they  find  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  a  dangerously  inexact  metaphor)  for  the  .  .  .  ahem ! 
sombre  apparel  of  the  sick-nurse,  and  the  ...  er  ... 
gloom  of  the  ...  er  ...  chamber  of  ...  er  ... 
dissolution.  "Death"  seemed  a  rather  strong  word 
to  use  before  Olivia,  and  "dissolution"  answered  de- 
cidedly better.  And  then  Mr.  Spillington  turned 


126  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

toward  Mrs.  Tingle,  who  was  only  a  short  distance 
away  from  him,  and  who  instantly  handed  up  the 
pitcher  she  had  been  concealing,  which  was  passed 
onward  until  it  reached  the  spokesman's  grasp. 

"  Accept,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ottarson,"  he  now  said,  lifting 
the  pitcher  in  both  hands  as  though  he  were  about  to 
consecrate  it  by  some  impressive  ceremonial,  "  this  in- 
sufficient and  yet  warmly  affectionate  proof  of  our  .  .  ." 

But  here  occurred  a  sudden  most  unforeseen  inter- 
ruption. It  was  made  by  Mrs.  Tingle.  She  probably 
meant  to  whisper,  but  what  she  accomplished  was 
nearer  to  a  plaintive  scream. 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  she  broke  forth,  "  I've  made  a  mis- 
take. I'm  so  near-sighted,  and  —  and  my  room  was 
dim.  Yes,  I  —  I've  made  a  mistake." 

Mr.  Spillington,  with  the  pitcher  still  raised  aloft 
in  an  attitude  that  seemed  to  him  particularly  fine  as 
an  idea  and  was  majestic  enough  to  be  called  sacerdo- 
tal as  a  performance,  here  turned  somewhat  scowl- 
ingly  to  the  agitated  speaker. 

"  A  mistake  ?  "  he  said,  in  low,  gruff  voice.  "  What 
do  you  mean,  ma'am?"  Seeing  that  every  eye  was 
now  turned  upon  her,  Mrs.  Tingle  palpably  shivered. 
She  drooped  her  eyes,  and  then  raised  them  again 
with  an  expression  of  acute  despair.  "  The  pitcher,' 
she  gasped.  " Don't !  It  —  it  isn't  it" 

"Isn't  it?"  cried  several  voices  in  amazed  concert. 

"No,"  stammered  Mrs.  Tingle.  Agitation  always 
produced  in  her  the  painfnl  effect  of  completely 
depressing  her  lower  lip,  till  it  dropped  below  her 
under  teeth  in  flaccid  limpness.  "I  mean  it's  the 
wrong  pitcher!  It's  —  it's  my  old  one,  and  not  her 
new  one !  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  127 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  and  then  came  a 
roar  of  laughter.  But  all  the  while  Mr.  Spillington 
preserved  his  consequential  posture,  and  when  calm 
was  restored  he  said  severely  to  Mrs.  Tingle  :  "  Oh 
very  well,  madam.  Then  your  blunder  will  compel 
me  to  present  this  pitcher,  so  to  speak,  by  proxy  for 
the  other  —  that's  all.  ...  Be  sure,"  he  added,  while 
he  now  gave  the  piece  of  plated  ware  into  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son's  outstretched  hands,  "  that  you  don't  allow  your- 
self to  be  bamboozled  out  of  the  pitcher  that  really 
belongs  to  you."  And  then  they  all  roared  again  — 
except  Aurelia  Sugby,  and  a  very  few  others.  Mrs. 
Sugby  would  not  have  done  more  than  smile  now,  no 
matter  what  had  been  the  terms  of  her  acquaintance- 
ship with  Mr.  Spillington  ;  for  slang  was  deeply  dis- 
tressing to  her,  whenever  and  wherever  lighted  on, 
and  she  rejoiced  in  making  her  newsboys,  her  boot- 
blacks, her  street  waifs  and  even  her  thieves  and  des- 
peradoes talk  with  an  elegance  and  correctness  of 
diction  that  might  stingingly  reproach  certain  other 
contemporary  novelists  for  their  over-realistic  methods. 

Olivia,  when  it  was  all  over,"  and  she  had  left  the 
dinner-table  for  that  most  pleasurable  privacy  which 
her  own  room  afforded,  felt  as  if  she  had  been  violat- 
ing the  requisitions  of  retirement  due  her  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  had  witnessed  a  theatrical  display  in  the 
teeth  of  opposite  inclinations.  An  environment  like 
this,  as  she  clearly  realized,  must  hereafter  bristle  with 
vexatious  trials.  But  she  meant  to  be  most  brave, 
and  to  hide  as  well  as  she  possibly  could  from  her 
aunt's  detection  the  very  effort  of  fortitude  that  she 
exerted.  On  next  meeting  Mrs.  Ottarson,  she  per- 
mitted no  semblance  of  complaint  or  of  adverse  criti- 


128  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

cism  to  evidence  the  weightsome  discouragement  that 
oppressed  her.  And  the  next  few  days  of  residence 
in  Twenty-Third  Street  had  the  effect  of  brightening 
her  gloomy  outlook.  Inexperience  prevented  her 
from  comprehending  how  light,  and  in  a  manner 
nominal,  were  the  duties  assigned  her.  She  soon  dis- 
covered herself  possessed  of  a  far  more  liberal  leisure 
than  she  "supposed  would  be  at  all  compatible  with  her 
new  position.  But  the  tact  of  Mrs.  Ottarson  in  con- 
cealing just  to  what  real  extent  Ida  Strang's  discon- 
tinued employments  had  been  made  like  those  of  a 
comparative  sinecure,  quite  evaded  Olivia's  untrained 
discernment.  She  failed  to  suspect  that  very  little  in 
the  way  of  household  aid  was  asked  of  her,  and  that 
this  very  little  had  been  dexterously  adapted  to  her 
novitiate  as  a  bread-winner. 

Still,  the  people  whom  she  must  now  not  merely 
meet  and  know,  but  meet  and  know  on  conditions  of 
thorough  equality,  incessantly  dealt  her  wounds  as 
sharp  as  they  were  unconscious.  No  high-strung 
daintiness  had  to  do  with  her  inward  revolt  against 
them.  It  was  simply,  as  she  more  than  once  told  her 
own  thoughts,  that  she  felt  dedassee  and  ill  at  ease 
among  them.  In  education  she  was  the  superior  of 
most  of  them,  and  where  others  were  as  mentally 
cultured  as  herself,  their  errors  from  the  line  of  man- 
nerly usage  to  which  she  had  conformed  for  so  long 
without  even  recognizing  her  own  implanted  acqui- 
escence, were  a  source  of  continual  aversion.  She 
began  to  perceive  that  there  were  innumerable  devia- 
tions from  the  code  of  good  breeding  with  which  she 
had  never  before  met  the  rough-and-ready  means  of 
acquainting  her  own  antipathies.  She  had  had  until 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  129 

now  no  lucid  idea  of  how  many  different  ways  there 
were  of  not  being  a  gentleman  or  a  gentlewoman. 

That  she  should  have  gone  to  live  with  Mrs.  Ott ar- 
son had  struck  her  other  two  aunts,  when  they  first 
heard  of  it,  as  an  act  grossly  unpardonable.  Olivia 
had  found  time  to  write  each  of  the  ladies  a  civil 
little  note,  saying  that  she  had  preferred  this  course 
to  any  other  which  might  be  recommended.  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  a  half-hour  after  receiving  the  news 
that  her  brother's  child  would  become  a  species  of 
upper  servant  in  a  boarding-house,  jumped  into  her 
carriage,  accompanied  by  her  eldest  daughter,  Emme. 
line,  and  had  herself  driven  to  the  home  of  her  sister, 
Mrs.  Auchincloss.  The  latter  received  her  kindred 
with  a  mournful  smile ;  she  was  holding  in  her  hand 
her  own  letter  from  Olivia,  recently  received.  And 
then,  a  little  later,  while  the  sisters  were  lamenting 
together,  Madeleine  Auchincloss  came  into  the  room 
and  joined  her  cousin,  Emmeline. 

These  two  young  ladies  cordially  disliked  one  an- 
other. Though  they  were  nearly  of  the  same  age, 
Emmeline  had  been  out  four  seasons  and  Madeleine 
only  two.  Madeleine  was  jealous  of  her  cousin  for 
being  the  sort  of  personally  attractive  girl  who  would 
have  shone  as  an  indubitable  belle  even  if  she  were 
not  a  Satterthwaite;  whereas  Madeleine,  with  her 
thinnish  figure  and  dark,  small-featured  face,  would 
never  have  shone  the  least  in  the  world  as  a  belle  if 
she  had  not  been  an  Auchincloss  besides.  Emmeline 
was  large,  and  had  been  irreverently  called  (perhaps 
from  the  springy,  mercurial  style  of  her  walk  and  of 
her  step  in  the  dance)  "  bouncing."  But  she  had  the 
low,  broad  brow,  the  lustrous  eyes,  the  brilliant  smile, 


130  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

and  the  full,  deep  bosom  of  a  young  Roman  girl. 
Men  were  sure  to  flock  about  her  wherever  she  went, 
and  her  cold,  daring,  imperious  air  both  fascinated 
and  repelled.  She  thought  Madeleine  "  slow,"  prud- 
ish and  affected,  just  as  Miss  Auchincloss  thought  her 
"fast,"  romping  and  indecorous.  But  Emmeline  was 
jealous  of  her  cousin  for  the  atmosphere  of  extreme 
propriety  and  selectness  always  floating  about  her  like 
some  rare  scent  impossible  to  secure.  The  Satter- 
thwaite  name  was  talismanic  in  society,  but  the 
Auchincloss  name  was  a  degree  or  two  more  so,  and 
Madeleine  appeared  forever  to  be  covertly  pluming 
herself  on  this  delicate  yet  distinct  grade  of  ascend- 
ency. Emmeline  always  had  a  sense  of  being  objected 
to  when  in  her  cousin's  company,  and  at  such  times 
Madeleine  felt  that  her  own  placid  bienseance  was  an 
object  of  intangible  satire.  Since  they  had  been  little 
girls  together,  these  relations,  influenced  only  by  their 
respective  ages,  had  endured  between  them,  and  it 
was  safe  to  assert  that  they  would  be  modified  or 
destroyed  by  no  fresh  force  but  that  resulting  from 
the  future  rise  or  fall  which  marriage  would  effect  for 
either.  Madeleine  had  long  ago  resolved  never  to 
marry  unless  she  gave  her  slender,  milky  little  hand 
to  a  man  of  much  greater  wealth  than  her  own  and  a 
position  quite  on  a  level  with  that  of  the  Auchin- 
closses.  Emmeline  had  resolved  to  marry  as  well  as 
she  could,  but  she  had  reached  that  cooler  state  of 
matrimonial  exploration  Avhen  the  loftier  peaks  begin 
to  loom  a  trifle  insurmountable  and  the  lesser  ones 
offer  chances  consolatory  if  not  inspiriting. 

"  You  are  looking  so  very  well,"  said  Madeleine  to 
her   cousin,   in    the   calm,    smooth   voice    which   was 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  131 

almost  a  counterfeit  of  her  mother's,  and  while  the 
two  elder  ladies  were  holding  converse  but  a  short 
distance  away.  "You  always  manage  to  keep  your 
fine  color,  my  dear ;  don't  you  ?  " 

Emmeline  had  never  cared  to  have  her  color  re- 
marked ;  Madeleine  knew  it,  and  the  other  was  well 
aware  that  Madeleine  did  know  it.  Miss  Satterthwaite 
put  her  handsome,  firm-throated  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  and  answered  with  a  note  or  two  of  laughter : 
"  I  don't  manage ;  good  health  manages  for  me.  It's 
a  source  of  immense  vanity  to  me,  my  perfect  health ; 
I'm  always  enchanted  to  be  complimented  on  it  ... 
Do  you  still  have  your  wretched  headaches,  my  dear 
Lina?" 

"  We  are  so  quiet  now,  since  poor  uncle's  death," 
said  Madeleine,  with  a  faint,  flickering  smile.  "  That 
makes  a  difference  with  me,  don't  you  know?  .  .  .  By 
the  way,  Lily  Ten  Eyck  told  me  that  she  saw  yon 
out,  somewhere,  quite  recently  .  .  .  where  was  it? 
She  also  told  me  that  .  .  .  but  I  forget." 

Emmeline  shook  her  head  in  serene  negation.  "  Saw 
me!  Why,  there's  nothing  going  on  so  late  as  this, 
you  know.  Lily  is  always  imagining  things.  Besides, 
uncle's  death  has  the  same  effect  on  us,  naturally,  as 
on  your  family.  Of  course,  there  are  still  dinners. 
But  we  refuse  them,  just  as  you  do." 

"  I  remember,  now,"  said  Madeleine,  with  dove-like 
gentleness.  "  It  was  at  the  new  exhibition  of  the 
Academy  of  Design  ;  it  was  last  night,  I  believe." 

Emmeline  started,  and  laughed  somewhat  nervously. 
"Was  Lily  Ten  Eyck  there?"  she  Hurriedly  ques- 
tioned. Then  growing  composed  again,  she  continued: 
"  I  went,  but  mamma  did  not." 


132  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Ah!  you  went?"  said  Madeleine.  Those  three 
quiet  words  conveyed  a  volume  of  soft  reproach.  She 
had  had  no  move  regard  for  her  dead  uncle  than  for 
any  one  whose  demise  had  lately  been  chronicled  in 
the  newspapers ;  but  "  a  death  in  the  family  "  meant  a 
sacred  obligation  to  refrain  from  everything  that 
resembled  festivity  —  and  especially  when  that  death 
concerned  a  Van  Rensselaer,  for  which  name  (not- 
withstanding the  misalliance  that  had  begotten  her 
cousin  Olivia)  she  entertained  deep  reverence. 

"  Yes,  I  went,"  declared  Emmeline,  with  a  sudden 
show  of  that  empire  sur  soi-meme  for  which  she  had 
already  become  noted  among  friends  and  foes.  "  Mamma 
did  not  go,  however." 

"  Surely  not ! "  murmured  Madeleine. 

"The  Plunketts  took  me,"  said  Emmeline,  thor- 
oughly composed  now. 

"  The  .  .  .  Plunketts  ? "  queried  Madeleine,  with  a 
sudden  titter.  "  Excuse  me,  but  it's  such  an  odd 
name !  "  And  she  tittered  again. 

"Yes,"  said  Emmeline,  "it  is,  rather,  isn't  it? 
They're  very  nice  people;  you  wouldn't  be  likely 
to  know  them,  however  .  .  .  they're  fond  of  art 
and  books  and  such  matters."  (Emmeline  had 
probably  read  twenty  books  herself  in  the  past  four 
years,  and  those  were  novels  of  a  not  very  elevated 
type.) 

"  I  have  met  people  of  that  sort,"  said  Madeleine,  a 
little  stiffly.  "They  didn't  have  extraordinary  names, 
as  far  as  I  can  recollect,  but  I  found  them  very  nice, 
notwithstanding.  They  were  all  men,  though.  Papa 
brought  them  from  the  Centennial  Club." 

Here  Emmeline  laughed  a  little. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE,  133 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  club  that  papa  thinks  so  dread- 
fully rowdy?" 

"Rowdy?"  echoed  Madeleine.  "Did  your  father 
really  say  that?" 

"Why,  yes,  my  dear;  I  heard  him  say  it  to  your 
father's  face.  Wasn't  it  perfectly  atrocious  of  him  ?  " 

"  Papa  thinks  his  club,  the  Metropolitan,  full  of  the 
most  objectionable  members,"  Madeleine  now  said. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  that's  true  enough,"  answered  Ern- 
meline;  "but  then  you  know,  my  dear,  they're  not 
shabby  and  Bohemian  members,  like  painters  and 
writers." 

"Are  the  Plunketts  shabby  and  Bohemian?"  asked 
Madeleine,  in  her  very  sweetest  tones. 

"  Oh,  no  ...  The  eldest  son,  Arthur  Plunkett,  goes 
out  sometimes  in  society.  I  dare  say  you  have  seen 
him." 

"Never,  to  my  knowledge,"  said  Madeleine  coldly. 
A  vague,  self-conscious  touch  about  her  cousin's 
reply  had  made  her  wonder  if  there  could  be  any 
chance  of  Emmeline  taking  up,  at  a  future  day,  with 
some  such  person  as  this  Arthur  Plunkett.  "  And 
you  are  very  good  friends,  you  and  he?"  she  added. 

"  Passably  good  friends.  His  mother  has  quiet 
little  dinners,  that  rest  one  after  the  big  whirl  of 
things." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Madeleine,  leaning  her  small  head, 
with  its  bands  of  glossy  dark  hair,  a  little  backward, 
and  giving  to  her  upper  lip  the  faintest  curl.  "You 
mean  that  they  are  people  at  the  outskirts  who  are 
trying  to  push  themselves  farther  in.  I  think  it  is  so 
very  good  of  you  to  treat  such  people  civilly.  I  con- 
fess that  I  never  can." 


134  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  returned  Emrneline,  looking  pen- 
sively down  at  the  smai't  freshness  of  her  semi- 
mourning  apparel ;  "  I  am  afraid  it  will  never  do  for 
you  and  me  to  hold  ourselves  so  much  above  the 
outsiders  hereafter." 

"  Hereafter?"  questioned  Madeleine,  with  the  curl  of 
her  lip  increasing.  "  Why,  pray,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  refer  to  this  absurd  action  on  Cousin  Olivia's 
part.  Of  course  you've  learned  of  it,  as  your  mother 
has  been  notified." 

And  just  then  Mrs.  Auchincloss  was  heard,  softly 
exclaiming:  "It  seems  as  if  that  unpleasant  woman 
must  have  tempted  her  to  do  it.  And  yet  Olivia 
writes  that  she  does  it  of  her  own  free  will." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  retorted  Mrs.  Satterthwaite, 
with  the  clear  nip  of  spite  in  her  accent ;  "  Olivia 
shall  take  the  consequences  as  far  as  Bleecker  and 
myself  and  the  children  are  concerned.  I  know  it's 
wretched  form  to  disown  your  relations ;  but  we  are 
not  going  to  follow  the  girl  there.  If  she  comes  to  us, 
that  is  another  matter." 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  remember  who  she  is,"  said 
Mrs.  Auchincloss,  with  a  musing  shake  of  the  head. 

"It  appears  to  me,  Aunt  Letitia,"  exclaimed  Emme- 
line,  "  that  she  has  taken  pains  to  remind  us  she's  the 
niece  of  Mrs.  Ottarson." 

"Yes,  I  know,  my  dear,"  responded  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs, who  thought  her  sister's  eldest  daughter  shock- 
ingly forward,  even  for  a  girl  in  her  fourth  season, 
and  gave  almost  daily  thanks  that  her  Madeleine  had 
not  that  curt  American  way;  "but  blood  is  blood, 
and  we,  who  come  from  a  very  old  and  honorable 
race,  cannot  afford  to  forget  this." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  135 

"I  don't  forget  it,"  said  Emraeline,  tossing  her 
prettily  bonneted  head.  "  But  Olivia's  behavior 
makes  me  very  sorry  indeed  that  Uncle  Houston 
forgot  it  a  good  many  years  ago." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  gave  her  sister  a  look  that  seemed 
to  say :  "  Shall  you  not  rebuke  this  unmannerly  pert- 
ness?" 

But  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  did  not  rebuke  it.  She 
merely  remarked,  with  a  careless  glance  in  her 
daughter's  direction  :  "  Oh,  that's  one  of  the  ancient 
bygones,  Em.  There's  no  use  of  raking  it  up  nowa- 
days." 

"I'm  not,  mamma,"  said  Emmeline.  "It's  Olivia 
who  is  raking  it  up  —  and  very  disagreeably,  I  should 
say " 

"What  a  loud,  rude,  married  style  that  girl,  Em- 
meline, has!"  declared  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  after  the 
Satterthwaites  had  departed.  "  We  must  always 
bear  in  mind,  Madeleine,  that  as  a  family  we  are 
entirely  ourselves,  and  quite  distinctly,  separated  from 
all  other  branches  of  it." 

"  Of  course,  mamma,"  assented  Madeleine,  who  had 
heard  this  kind  of  pronunciamiento,  in  various  modes 
of  utterance,  almost  from  her  cradle.  "  But  do  you 
think  of  going  to  see  Olivia,  really,  after  the  way  she 
has  conducted  herself?  Do  you  actually  think  of  go- 
ing to  see  her,  mamma,  in  that  house?" 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  heaved  a  sigh.  "  My  dear  Made- 
leine," she  answered,  "  I  have  not  yet  clearly  made  up 
my  mind.  I  must  consuh)  with  your  father.  There 
are  duties  in  life  which  we  must  not  shirk.  Olivia  is 
very  young.  If  I  do  go  it  will  be  an  ordeal.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to  go.  I  will  reflect,  and  as  I  said,  I 


136  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

will  talk  it  all  over  with  your  father.  His  advice  will 
of  course  be  precious  to  me,  as  it  always  is.  In  any 
case,  we  will  not  jump  to  conclusions,  after  the  style 
of  the  Satterthwaites." 

Madeleine  went  up  to  her  mother  and  kissed  her  on 
one  of  her  chilly  little  cheeks  as  if  she  were  going 
through  some  long-revered  domestic  rite.  "  You  will 
certainly  do  what  is  proper,  mamma,"  she  said  ;  "  you 
never  fail  to  do  that." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Auchincloss, 
accepting  the  kiss,  but  not  returning  it.  ... 

Three  or  four  evenings  later,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  in 
her  showy  and  almost  gorgeous  Fifth  Avenue  draw- 
ing-room was  the  recipient  of  a  visit  from  her  old  and 
valued  friend,  Mr.  Spencer  Delaplaine. 

"How  good  of  you!"  she  said,  as  she  shook  hands 
with  him.  "You  needn't  tell  me  that  your  horrid 
gout  is  worse.  I  know  about  its  being  so." 

Delaplaine  made  a  sad  little  motion.  "  I  suppose 
you  saw  me  limp  as  I  came  in,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  not  that.  Suydarn  Desbrosses  told  you'd 
spoken  of  it  at  the  club  the  other  evening.  I  was  so 
sorry  for  you!  Take  a  more  comfortable  chair  — 
do!" 

"  No,  thanks.  This  is  a  Sleepy  Hollow  for  comfort. 
All  your  chairs  always  are.  I  am  a  trifle  under  the 
weather."  .  He  looked  about  him,  as  if  some  other 
occupant  of  the  great  room  might  be  discoverable 
amid  its  rich  assortment  of  sofas,  fauteuils  and 
screens.  He  rubbed  a  hand,  against  one  of  his  knees 
as  he  went  on  speaking.  "Yes,  my  devil  has  broken 
loose  again.  But  the  doctor  is  doing  everything  to 
quiet  him.  You  stare  at  me  as  if  you  thought  I  ought 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINK  137 

to  be  home  in  bed.  Well,  I  shan't  attempt  to  contra- 
dict you  if  that  is  your  opinion." 

"Pshaw,  I've  seen  you  when  you  looked  better," 
said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  who  did  not  recall  ever  having 
seen  him  when  he  looked  worse.  "But  you're  not 
seriously  ill.  It's  very  plain  to  me  that  you're  not, 
Spencer." 

"Not  yet,"  he  returned  grimly.  "As  it  is,"  he 
went  on,  fixing  a  regard  upon  her  that  she,  who 
knew  him  so  well,  instantly  knew  to  betoken  some 
matter  of  moment,  "  I  should  not  have  ventured  out 
at  all  this  evening." 

"Perhaps  you're  right  there,  inhospitable  though  it 
may  sound  in  me.  I  never  recollect  such  a  ghastly 
May ;  do  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  there's  never  any  May  in  this  country.  I 
thought  you'd  learned  that  long  ago." 

"We  occasionally  get  a  few  hours  of  sunshine, 
though,  and  a  wind  not  altogether  easterly.  I've 
known  nice  days  when  the  Coaching  Club  paraded, 
for  instance." 

"Yes  —  which  it  didn't  deserve  to  have.  Provi- 
dence should  conspire,  every  year,  with  the  American 
Eagle  to  drench  it  through  for  being  such  a  piece  of 
Anglomaniacal  brummagem." 

"Oli,  don't!"  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  pleaded;  "you 
make  me  think  of  what  might  have  happened  to  my 
Emmeline.  She  was  invited  to  go  next  Thursday  in 
Tom  Forsythe's  coach.  She  was  to  have  the  box  seat, 
poor  girl !  " 

"And  isn't  she  going?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  Houston  was  her  own  blood-uncle, 
you  know.  One  must  draw  a  line  somewhere,  as  I 


138  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

told  Em.  And  that  reminds  me,  Spencer  —  Have  you 
heard  of  Olivia's  delightful  caper  ?  " 

"You  mean  her  going  to  live  with  her  maternal 
aunt?" 

"'Maternal  aunt 'has  a  highly  misleading  sound," 
said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  It  puts 
that  dire  Mrs.  Ott arson  in  quite  too  respectable  a 
light."  She  looked  extremely  wrathful  now ;  she 
bit  her  lip,  folded  her  arms  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  watching  her  companion 
between  half-shut  eyelids.  "Olivia  is  old  enough  to 
know  better,  and  my  side  of  the  family,  from  Bleecker 
to  little  Lulu,  shall  give  her  to  understand  that  we 
think  so.  Why,  Letitia  and  I  both  said  to  her  the 
day  we  told  her  about  the  state  of  her  father's  affairs, 
that  our  homes  would  be  hers  from  now  till  she  mar- 
ried !  And  then  to  prefer  that  woman's  house !  And 
they  say  that  a  foreign  education  has  a  refining  influ- 
ence !  My  Elaine,  you  remember,  was  crazy  to  go 
abroad  with  Lucy  Van  Ness  when  she  was  sent  there 
to  school  a  few  years  ago.  I'm  glad  enough,  now,  that 
I  kept  her  at  home." 

There  was  a  silence.  Delaplaine  was  slowly  smooth- 
ing his  lame  knee  again.  His  keen  gray  eyes  were 
downcast  while  he  did  so,  but  he  now  lifted  them  to 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite's  face  as  he  said  : 

"It  was  about  Olivia  that  I  came  here  to  speak 
with  you.  Indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  I  would 
not  have  come,  I  can  assure  you ;  for  I  am  ill  —  very 
ill,  and  at  this  moment  —  " 

He  paused  abruptly.  He  had  grown  strangely  pale, 
and  his  lips  twitched  as  if  from  some  fierce  attack  of 
pain.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  sprang  to  her  feet  in  sharp 
alarm. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  139 


VIII. 

"  No,  no ;  it  is  nothing,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her 
anxious  look.  Already,  during  a  few  seconds,  his 
cheeks  had  won  a  less  ghastly  tint,  and  the  signs  of 
distress  had  fled  from  his  mouth  and  eyes.  "  I'm  bet- 
ter. .  .  .  The  doctor  warned  me  I  might  have  one  or 
two  visitations  like  these  —  confound"  them !  I  ought 
not  to  have  come  out  to-night ;  my  hateful  malady 
must  be  nursed  for  some  little  time,  or  it  will  get 
beyond  the  powers  of  nursing."  He  took  her  hand, 
pressing  it,  and  watching  her  solicitous  face  with  a 
smile  that  was  nearer  to  being  tender  than  any  like 
expression  she  had  seen  there  more  than  once  or  twice 
in  all  her  long  acquaintance  with  him.  "  Sit  down 
again,  I  beg,  and  listen  to  me.  I've  something  that  I 
want  to  tell  you." 

She  obeyed  him,  but  wheeled  her  chair  closer  to  his 
before  she  again  seated  herself.  "I  knew  you  had 
some  important  thing  to  say,"  she  answered,  leaning 
forward  and  fixing  her  gaze  upon  him  very  earnestly. 
"I  somehow  saw  it  in  your  face  when  I  first  met 
you." 

"I  didn't  know  I  carried  my  heart  on  my  sleeve 
like  that." 

"  Your  heart !  you  haven't  —  I  mean  you've  always 
tried  to  make  people  believe  you  hadn't  one." 

He  set  bis  lips  rather  sourly  together,  and  shook  his 
gray  head.  "I  sha'n't  have  one  long,  if  this  gout  con- 


140  OLIVIA   VELAPLAINE. 

eludes  to  fly  to  it.  ...  But  that  doesn't  concern  the 
present  question." 

"Well,  and  pray  what  is  the  present  question? 
It's  so  odd,  don't  you  know,  my  good  friend,  to  find 
you  very  deeply  interested  in  any" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  mock  sober  contradiction,  and 
began  to  put  on  his  eyeglasses.  "  That  kind  of  talk, 
when  I  have  been  interested  in  you  for  a  century ! " 

"  A  century !     How  scorching  of  you!  " 

"Not  to  a  woman  like  yourself  —  a  woman  who  has 
managed  to  have  so  pretty  a  quarrel  with  time  that 
she  couldn't  grow  old  if  she  tried." 

"Oh,  I  like  that  much  better.  You  pass  a  sly 
powder-puff  across  my  wrinkles." 

"  I  haven't  yet  perceived  them.  You  manage  to 
hide  them  till  their  existence,  like  that  of  your  faults, 
becomes  a  myth  to  your  many  admirers." 

She  laughed.  This  dexterity  of  compliment  was  a 
kind  of  balm  to  her,  as  it  is  to  all  women  of  her  age, 
and  her  persistence  in  the  evasion  of  life's  larger  and 
stronger  appeals.  "But  what  is  your  great  secret? 
I'm  dying  of  curiosity  to  learn  it." 

He  looked  once  more  about  the  room,  with  its 
shadowy  corners,  where  the  gloss  of  satin  tapestry  or 
the  drowsy  lustre  of  bronzes,  or  the  pale  gleam  of 
marble,  was  to  be  richly  glimpsed.  "  Where  is  every- 
body to-night  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid  of  listeners.  Emmeline  and 
Elaine  have  gone  to  a  sewing-class.  Very  dreadful  of 
them,  isn't  it,  considering •?  But  they  would  go,  and  I 
only  hope  there  isn't  the  least  bit  of  a  German  after- 
ward. The  Schenectadys,  who  chaperoned  them, 
vowed  it  was  to  be  nothing  but  tea  and  con  versa- 


OLIVIA  LELAPLAINE.  141 

tion.  .  .  .  Bleecker's  playing  cards  at  the  club,  I  sup- 
pose. He  usually  is,  at  this  hour  —  if  he  isn't  doing 
worse.  And  as  for  young  Aspinwall  —  well,  he's  got 
his  latch-key  at  last,  after  fighting  his  father  about  it 
all  winter,  and  I  don't  know  where  he  is ;  I  dare  say 
he's  smoking  cigarettes  in  the  cafe  at  Delmonico's, 
instead  of  studying  for  his  next  Columbia  examina- 
tion, which  takes  place  rather  soon.  .  .  .  Peyster,  the 
dear  stupid  boy,  and  Lulu,  the  strange  little  vixen, 
are  both  asleep  in  bed.  Lulu  danced  herself  almost 
sick  this  afternoon  at  a  child's  affair  the  Stuyvesant 
Smiths  gave ;  she  begged  so  hard  that  I  let  her  go  ; 
for  how  can  a  child  like  that  be  expected  to  feel  sad 
about  the  death  of  an  uncle  whom  she's  scarcely 
seen  ?  .  .  .  There,  Spencer,  you  have  a  full  account 
of  just  how  the  entire  family  are  occupied  at  present, 
so  far  as  I'm  able  to  inform  you.  .  .  .  Come,  let  me 
hear  your  secret." 

"  It  will  surprise  you  very  much,"  he  said,  slowly 
and  with  an  unwonted  air  of  implicitly  meaning  each 
word.  "Perhaps  you'll  be  inclined  to  ask  yourself 
whether  this  last  illness  of  mine  hasn't  put  me  a  little 
out  of  my  head." 

"  It's  a  very  wise  and  prudent  head,"  she  replied ; 
"  at  least  I've  always  found  it  so." 

"Ah,  what  if  I  should  tell  you  that  I  had  lost  it  — 
or  that  it  had  been  turned  ?  "  Their  eyes  met,  and  he 
went  on:  "I  tried  to  stop  Olivia  from  going  to  live  at 
her  aunt  Ottarson's  the  other  day.  I  tried  to  stop  her 
by  asking  her  to  come  and  live  with  me.  ...  As  my 
wife,  I  mean." 

"Ah!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  looking  as  if 
she  were  powerless  to  speak  another  word. 


142  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  She  would  not  come,"  Delaplaine  pursued,  staring 
straight  before  him,  now.  "  But  I  think  she  can  be 
prevailed  upon  to  come.  I  think  you  can  help  me  in 
prevailing  upon  her.  You've  always  stood  my  friend, 
as  I've  stood  yours.  I  am  afraid  I  can't  act  for 
myself  very  capably  during  the  next  week  or  so.  .  .  ." 
There  was  a  pause,  and  as  yet  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  did 
not  seem  to  have  recovered  from  her  amazement ;  her 
startled  eyes  were  riveted  upon  Delaplaine's  visage, 
while  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  lurked  an  in- 
credulous expression  that  seemed  to  belie  the  conster- 
nation above  it;  she  looked,  indeed,  as  though  she 
were  prepared  at  a  moment's  warning  to  be  informed 
that  this  whole  queer  bit  of  tidings  meant  nothing  less 
trivial  than  a  mere  humorous  deception. 

"  I  want  you  to  help  me,  if  you  will,"  Delaplaine 
soon  continued,  "I  am  nearly  sure  that  you  can,  and 
importantly,  too.  I  don't  mean  that  you  can  quicken 
or  even  touch  in  the  girl  any  impulse  of  sentiment. 
But  if  you  speak  with  discretion  you  may  appeal  to 
her  reason  —  yes,  her  reason  alone,  Augusta.  I  de- 
spair of  your  doing  anything  else.  For  that  matter, 
how  can  I  fitly  use  the  word  'despair,'  which  signifies 
an  ended  hope?  And  I  have  never  had  a  ray  of  hope. 
You  must  understand  that." 

"Despair?  ....  hope?"  she  exclaimed.  "Good 
heavens,  Spencer  Delaplaine !  Do  you  actually  mean 
that  you,  at  your  time  of  life,  care  for  the  girl  in  that 
way?" 

"I  mean  that  I  am  in  love  with  her,"  he  responded. 
And  then,  after  having  spoken  these  few  words  in 
what  sounded  to  their  listener  like  a  voice  borrowed 
from  another  being  (she  had  been  so  long  accustomed 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  143 

to  the  lambent  play  of  his  ironies  over  almost  every 
conceivable  subject!)  he  employed  a  tone  much  more 
familiar  to  her,  and  added,  with  the  tart,  laconic,  gelid 
phrasing  that  she  had  heard  hundreds  of  times  before : 
"Yes,  I'm  downright  in  love  at  last.  It's  sad  but  it's 
true.  I'm  in  love, —  gray  hair,  baldness,  wrinkles, 
worldly  experience,  sixty  odd  years  and  gout,  all 
included." 

She  was  about  to  break  into  a  laugh  as  he  thus  ter- 
minated his  droll  confession.  But  something  re- 
strained her  from  doing  so.  She  was  to  a  great 
extent  a  scoffer  like  himself.  If  he  had  been  almost 
anybody  else  among  the  many  men  whom  she  knew, 
and  had  made  an  admission  at  once  so  unexpected 
and  so  incongruous,  she  would  not  have  spared  him 
the  mischievous  cut-and-thrust  of  her  amusement.  But 
as  it  was,  she  contented  herself  with  this  quiet  answer, 
while  she  stretched  forth  one  hand  until  it  rested 
lightly  yet  decisively  on  his  arm  : 

"I'll  help  you  —  of  course,  I  will,  in  any  manner 
that  you  think  best.  Just  tell  me  how  you  would 
like  me  to  act,  and  I  will  promise  faithfully  to  follow 
your  instructions." 

Meanwhile  it  shot  through  her  brain :  What  a  god- 
send for  Olivia,  and  what  a  happy  stroke  for  us! 
She  changes  "  Van  Rensselaer  "  for  "  Delaplaine  "  — 
not  at  all  a  bad  change.  And  she  changes  that  horri- 
ble boarding-house  for  an  establishment  any  woman  in 
the  country  might  be  pi-oud  of.  She  shall  marry  him, 
if  I've  the  power  to  show  her  how  great  a  fool  she 
would  be  in  refusing  him !  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  had  meanwhile  consulted  with  her 
husband  on  the  question  of  paying  a  visit  to  Olivia  in 


144  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

the  foolish  retreat  which  that  rash  young  girl  had 
chosen.  She  had  permitted  Madeleine  and  her  brother, 
Chichester,  to  be  present  at  the  discussion,  and  had 
selected  the  hour  of  dessert  for  commencing  it,  after 
the  coffee  had  been  served  and  the  butler  had  been 
dismissed. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings  when  the  Auchin- 
closses  dined  en  famille.  They  had  so  solid  and  pro- 
found a  respect  for  one  another  that  occasions  like  the 
present,  happening  two  or  three  times  every  week, 
were  looked  upon  as  refreshing  and  priceless  relaxa- 
tions from  the  ritualistic  worry  of  social  duty.  The 
whole  Auchincloss  family  might  be  said  to  accept 
every  event  of  life  either  in  this  light  or  in  no  other 
that  was  worth  the  smallest  real  consideration.  They 
moved  all  four  of  them  (a  most  august  quadrilateral !), 
in  the  sole  unswerving  and  punctilious  groove  of  duty. 
Mr.  Archibald  Auchincloss,  as  head  of  the  great  house 
and  a  lawyer  of  unimpeachable  standing,  had  long 
ago  secured  the  reputation  of  making  duty  his  inflexi- 
ble watchword.  How,  as  a  lawyer  of  any  standing 
whatever,  he  had  managed  to  reconcile  his  ideals  with 
his  practical  operations,  is  a  question  which  melts 
away  from  the  art  of  the  annalist  into  that  reverend 
obscurity  known  as  this  gentleman's  well-ordered  and 
irreproachable  conscience.  But  he  effected  such  a 
truce  without  the  least  apparent  difficulty.  Of  his 
wife's  dutiful  proclivities  we  have  already  enjoyed  a 
glimpse.  Madeleine,  their  only  daughter,  bowed  to 
her  own  private  little  lar  of  duty  with  the  calm  fervor 
of  a  nun  to  her  crucifix.  Chichester,  who  was  not 
very  much  older  than  his  cousin,  Aspinwall  Satter- 
thwaite,  had  long  been  a  pride  and  a  gladness  to  both 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  145 

his  parents.  He  had  gone  to  Harvard,  not  Columbia, 
and  had  been  graduated  three  or  four  from  the  head 
of  his  class.  Yon  could  not  have  induced  him  to  sit 
and  smoke  cigarettes  in  the  cafe  of  Delmonico's,  after 
the  fashion  of  his  cousin.  For  that  matter,  he  never 
smoked  at  all,  secretly  detesting  the  practice,  in 
common  with  his  father.  He  was  now  one  of  the 
most  creditable  disciples  of  the  Columbia  Law  School, 
and  looked  forward  with  eager  joy  to  being  made  at 
some  future  time  a  member  of  that  unsullied  legal 
house,  Chichester,  Auchincloss  and  Gibbes.  There 
were  some  people  who  thought  the  heir  of  the  Auchin- 
closs family  an  insupportable  young  prig;  his  cousin, 
Aspinwall,  was  one  of  these ;  the  latter  always  puffed 
his  cigarette-smoke  a  little  more  recklessly  through 
his  nose,  and  assumed  a  larger  amount  of  swagger, 
profanity  and  piercing  knowledge  of  the  whole  vain 
and  worthless  female  sex,  whenever  Chichester  and  he 
encountered  one  another.  In  consequence  Chichester 
would  speak  of  his  cousin  with  shudders,  at  home,  as 
the  very  worst  type  of  "  dude  "  —  the  "  dude  "  that 
rolls  a  vicious  eyeball  toward  unlawful  pleasures. 
Aspinwall,  on  the  other  hand,  would  mention  lazily  to 
his  father  having  met  "  that  confounded  young  ass  of 
a  Chichester,"  and  having  ached  to  kick  him.  Either 
young  kinsman  doubtless  exaggerated  the  faults  of 
the  other,  but  it  is  possible  that  a  great  deal  of  perti- 
nent and  veracious  criticism  lurked  beneath  their 
mutual  disesteem. 

"Of  course  Olivia  has  done  a  miserably  foolish 
thing,"  Mrs.  Auchincloss  now  said,  looking  across  the 
table  at  her  husband's  clean-shorn,  statuesque  face,  with 
its  big,  curvilinear  nose  and  its  square-molded  jaw. 


146  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  But  the  great  point  is  that  we  might  pardon  it  be- 
cause of  her  youth.'' 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Auchincloss,  as  though  he  were 
thinking  of  the  pros  and  cons  in  some  professional 
"  case."  "  Youth  certainly  is  an  excuse  for  such  acts 
of  rashness.  It  may  not  have  occurred  to  Olivia  how 
direct  a  slur  she  was  casting  upon  you  and  her  Aunt 
Augusta,  since  you  had  both  expressed  your  willing- 
ness to  protect  her." 

Chichester  coughed  deliberately.  "I  can't  under- 
tand,"  he  said,  "  how  she  is  less  to  be  blamed  for  the 
affront  because  she  is  still  under  twenty  years  old.  I 
would  not  have  done  any  such  thing  as  that  when  I 
was  nineteen,  and  I  am  sure  Madeleine  would  not, 
either." 

"  We  have  had  peculiar  advantages  of  home-train- 
ing," said  Madeleine,  in  her  precise,  demure  way. 
"  We  have  been  taught  what  duty  means,  Chichey, 
thanks  to  mamma  and  papa." 

"My  dear  child!"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  giving 
Madeleine  the  most  benign  of  motherly  smiles.  And 
then  she  glanced  at  her  husband,  as  if  to  say :  "  What 
a  rich  reward  we  are  reaping  for  our  parental  devo- 
tions of  the  past  ?  " 

"  Even  duty  has  its  limitations,  however,"  remarked 
Chichester,  very  much  as  though  he  were  stating  that 
the  square  of  the  hypothenuse  of  a  right-angled  tri- 
angle was  equal  to  the  sum  of  the  squares  of  its  other 
two  sides. 

"True,  my  son,"  applauded  his  father.  "But  to 
err  generously  from  the  restrictions  of  a  dutiful  stand- 
ard is  often  to  show  a  humane  and  ...  a  ...  er 
.  .  .  commendable  mercy."  He  gave  forth  this  plati- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  147 

tude  as  though  it  were  a  bit  of  wisdom  ripe  with  the 
meditation  of  years. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  sir,"  acknowledged  Chichester,  who 
considered  his  father  one  of  the  leading  minds  of  the 
time.  "  I  suppose  mamma  means  to  forgive  Olivia 
and  go  to  see  her  in  those  objectionable  surroundings. 
I  don't  think  I  coftld  do  so,  urrder  the  circumstances; 
but  then  I  do  not  lay  claim  to  mamma's  truly  Christian 
spirit." 

He  looked,  while  speaking  these  words  with  his 
orderly,  measured  manner  of  saying  everything,  as 
though  he  possessed  no  spirit  whatever  except  one  of 
a  petit  maitre  in  all  the  conventionalisms  (not  to  name 
the  bigotries)  of  polite  conduct.  He  still  had  a  boyish 
appearance,  with  only  those  pimply  premonitions  on 
lips  and  chin  which  betoken  the  coming  virile  growth 
there;  but  his  face  was  in  every  feature  a  living 
reproduction  of  his  father's,  notwithstanding  its  imma- 
ture expression. 

And  surely  there  was  no  one  beneath  the  visiting 
moon  whom  he  would  have  preferred  to  resemble 
more  than  this  very  father,  upon  whose  countenance 
he  sometimes  gazed  as  though  it  were  a  magic  mirror, 
showing  him  his  own  future  physiognomy  improved 
by  mellowing  manhood.  Being  entirely  satisfied  with 
himself,  Chichester  was  no  less  satisfied  with  his 
father.  He  could  not  perceive  how  any  career  could 
be  more  delightfully  distinguished  than  that  of  Mr. 
Archibald  Auchincloss.  To  marry  aristocratically,  to 
acquire  fortune  and  reputation  at  the  bar,  to  accept 
fashion  and  patronize  talent,  to  avoid  all  vulgar  ex- 
tremes, and  never  to  leave  one  conservative  strong- 
hold until  you  could  slip  safely  from  it  into  another 


148  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

capable  of  protecting  you  against  the  horrid  pest  of 
the  unorthodox  and  the  radical ;  having  done  things 
like  these,  or  going  on  brilliantly  doing  them  from 
year  to  year,  was  Chichester  Auchincloss's  idea  of  a 
noble  and  profitable  life.  It  all  meant  "duty"  to 
him,  and  there  was  no  more  sacred  word  than  that  in 
his  gilt-edged  dictionary,  from  which  a  great  deal  of 
naughty  verbiage  had  been  exiled. 

His  mother's  Christian  spirit  triumphed  in  its  an- 
gelic desire  to  pardon  Olivia.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  was 
indeed  on  the  point  of  ordering  her  carriage,  two  or 
three  days  later,  and  having  herself  driven  to  the 
abominated  doorway  of  Mrs.  Ottarson,  when  her 
sister  Augusta  appeared,  brimming  with  the  most 
unexpected  news. 

"I  hope,  my  dear  Letitia,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite, 
after  she  had  made  her  first  astonishing  announcement, 
"that  you  will  keep  this  a  profound  secret  even  from 
Archibald." 

"Oh,  certainly,"  agreed  Mrs.  Auchincloss.  It  had 
speedily  become  her  intention,  however,  to  tell  her 
husband  all  about  it ;  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  proud 
of  Delaplaine's  intimacy  with  herself,  privately  wanted 
Mr.  Auchincloss  as  well  as  his  wife  to  know  of  the 
confidence  the  banker  had  reposed  in  her.  For 
Spencer  Delaplaine  held  just  that  unassailable  place 
in  society  toward  which  the  Auchinclosses  loved  to 
show  homage.  He  had  been  a  person  of  importance 
when  hundreds  of  the  present  regnant  dignitaries  were 
struggling  to  mass  together  the  dollars  which  had 
paid  for  their  subsequent  "positions."  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs remembered  him  as  one  of  the  leading  beaux, 
more  than  twenty  years  back,  at  the  old  Fourteenth 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  149 

Street  Delmonico  Assemblies,  or,  a  little  more  re- 
cently, at  those  most  enjoyable  "Cheap  and  Hungry" 
dancing  classes,  in  Dodworth's  Hall,  on  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Twenty-Sixth  Street.  Of  course  a  Delaplaine  was 
not  a  Van  Rensselaer — no,  nor  even  a  Ten  Eyck,  nor 
yet  a  Van  Peekskill.  She  even  recollected  hearing,  a 
long  time  ago,  when  there  had  been  some  talk  of 
Spencer  Delaplaine  going  into  partnership  with  her 
brother,  that  there  had  never  existed  any  family  of 
that  name  to  speak  of,  and  that  this  gentleman  (the 
ambitious,  clever,  and  moderately  well-off)  only  de- 
served to  rank  as  the  first  of  his  line.  But  years  and 
events  had  so  multiplied  since  then!  No  one  ever 
presumed  to  hint,  at  this  late  hour,  that  the  wealthy 
proprietor,  dwelling  in  West  Tenth  Street  so  luxuri- 
ously and  entertaining  with  so  much  blended  grace 
and  discrimination,  was  not  born  to  the  rare  and  fine 
name  which  he  now  held.  It  is  notably  true  of  New 
York  that  some  of  her  present  social  leaders  are  those 
whose  early  youth  was  a  strife  to  win  what  they  now 
wear  as  if  it  were  hereditary  ermine. 

"This  would  make  an  admirable  match  for  Olivia 
—  admirable?"  Mrs.  Auchincloss  now  proceeded,  as 
it  were,  to  muse  aloud.  "There  is  no  drawback  but 
age  .  .  .  none  whatever." 

" I  should  call  that  more  of  a  drawback  for  him" 
said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  with  the  cold,  hard,  loud- 
voiced  manner  to  which  her  sister  objected  as  being 
painfully  underbred  and  which  she  thought  on  the  in- 
crease, lately,  because  Augusta  would  choose  her 
friends  from  among  so  many  new  people.  "Very 
few  men  of  his  age  decide  to  marry  at  all ;  still  fewer, 
when  they  are  also  men  of  much  means.  As  he  offers 


150  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

to  make  a  handsome  settlement  on  Olivia,  I  should 
say  that  she  has  everything  her  own  way  —  or  nearly 
so  —  provided  she  takes  him." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  drooped  her  eyes. 

"I  hate  to  invest  anything  so  ...  so  holy  as  mar 
riage,  Augusta,  with  views  like  these." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  gave  a  stealthy  smile  of  amuse 
ment ;  she  knew  her  sister  so  well!  "Oh,"  she  said, 
primly,  "then  you  think  it's  our  duty  to  dissuade 
Olivia  from  the  marriage?" 

The  other  lady  started.  "  Dissuade  Olivia  ?  "  she 
faltered.  "  Oh,  no  !  I  —  I  mean,  my  dear  sister, 
that  it  would  not  be  fair  to  the  girl  if  we  did  not 
let  her  clearly  see  all  the  ...  er  ...  the  mere 
worldly  advantages  which  would  result  from  such 
a  marriage.  And  I  am  nearly  sure  that  Archibald 
will  sanction  this  mode  of  regarding  the  matter, 
when  —  " 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  tell  Archibald,"  struck  in 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

"  Ah  .  .  .  yes ;  I  remember." 

"And  now,  my  dear  Letitia,"  Mrs.  Satterthwaite 
went  on,  "since  you  have  these  feelings,  and  since 
mine  agree  with  them,  we  had  best  pay  Olivia  a 
visit.  I  think  we  shall  somehow  be  safer  if  we  go 
together ;  there's  no  telling  about  the  barbaric  be- 
havior of  that  Ottarson  woman ;  it  may  break  out 
at  any  moment." 

"  We  will  not  ask  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  AuchinclosSj 
"and  perhaps  by  this  means  we  shall  be  able  to  get  it 
through  her  head  that  we  do  not  wish  to  see  her." 

They  went  that  very  day,  and  saw  only  Olivia.  As 
they  drove  together  to  the  Twenty-Third  Street 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  151 

boarding-house,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  informed  her  sis- 
ter of  Delaplaiue's  illness.  He  had  not  left  his  home 
for  some  little  time,  now.  The  doctors  did  not  yet 
think  it  a  dangerous  attack,  but  it  might  become  dan- 
gerous at  very  short  notice. 

"It  will  be  advisable,  I  think,  to  tell  Olivia  this," 
said  Mrs.  Auchincloss  meditatively. 

They  did  tell  her.  After  Olivia  appeared  before 
them,  entering  the  shabby  parlor,  with  its  air  of 
being  lounge'd  in,  romped  in  and  generally  both  used 
and  abused,  they  met  her  with  no  rebukes  whatever. 
They  sat  and  talked  quietly  with  her  in  tones  that  she 
could  not  help  feeling  were  like  music  beside  the  shrill 
and  harsh  organs  of  speech  to  which  she  had  been 
listening  of  late.  While  they  thus  spoke,  a  smell  of 
cookery,  pungent  as  the  broiling  pork-chop  or  the 
browning  potato  can  render  it,  filled  all  the  lower 
portion  of  the  house ;  for  it  chanced  to  be  lunch-time 
at  Mrs.  Ottarson's,  and  as  we  know,  her  meals  were 
expected  to  feed  many  mouths.  As  Olivia  now  ob- 
served her  aunts,  it  was  to  remark  what  figures  of  ele- 
gance and  distinction  they  both  looked;  that  smell 
from  below-stairs  had  somehow  accentuated  their 
own  delicate  aroma  of  gentility.  The  boarders  were 
descending  to  luncheon  from  their  various  upper 
rooms,  and  presently  the  peacock-like  voice  of  Mrs. 
Spillington  was  heard,  as  if  it  called  from  the  middle 
of  the  outside  staircase  to  some  one  above : 

"  Oh!  .  .  .  I  presume  I  must  have  left  my  red 
worsted  shawl  laying  across  the  back  of  your  rock- 
ing-chair. Will  you  just  bring  it  down  when  you 
come,  please  ?  " 

Mrs.  Auchincloss   and    Mrs.  Satterthwaite    seemed 


152  OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE. 

like  two  ladies  who  had  never  worn  red  worsted 
shawls  in  their  lives  and  had  never  been  called  upon, 
for  that  matter,  to  inflict  their  nerves  with  the  kinds 
of  people  who  do  wear  them.  It  was  of  course  easier 
to  talk  with  Olivia  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Delaplaine's 
offer  now  that  it  had  been  made  to  the  girl  in  person  a 
few  days  before.  But,  notwithstanding  this  fact,  it 
was  still  by  no  means  easy.  Olivia  soon  flushed  and 
grew  sadly  embarrassed. 

"I  —  I  would  so  much  rather  not  speak  about  that 
affair,"  she  said,  biting  her  lips.  "  I  told  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine  that  it  —  it  wouldn't  be  possible."  She  now 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  her  aunts,  with  her 
eyes  widening  a  little  and  a  wave  of  surprise  begin- 
ning to  sweep  over  her  face.  "  Oh,"  she  exclaimed, 
putting  her  hands  together  with  what  had  half  the 
semblance  of  a  tender  supplication,  "  if  you've  thought 
that  you  could  persuade  me  to  take  any  such  step  as 
this,  I  beg  that  you  will  at  once  receive  my  positive 
answer.  It  is  no,  no ;  it's  a  hundred  noes,  if  you  like," 
with  a  roguishly  obstinate  sparkle  showing  in  her  blue 
eyes,  which  were  then  beaming  above  cheeks  that 
shame  had  hurriedly  reddened. 

The  two  sisters  exchanged  glances. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  with  her  suave, 
trainante  voice,  "  I  think  Mr.  Delaplaine  should  make 
you  very  happy  as  his  wife.  Very  happy,  indeed." 

"  Very  ?  "  iterated  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  more  briskly. 
"  Pray  don't  suppose  that  he  is  thought  to  be  an  old 
man,  here  in  New  York  society.  He  has  always 
lived  a  most  exemplary  life ;  he  has  taken  great 
care  of  himself ;  aud  now,  when  men  of  half  his  age 
find  themselves  broken  down,  he  is  full  of  youth  — 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  153 

absolute  youth."  The  recollection  that  this  belauded 
lad  of  sixty  was  just  now  a  severe  sufferer  from  gout 
had  wholly  escaped  the  speaker,  who  went  energeti- 
cally on  :  "  And  then,  my  dear,  his  exquisite  little 
palace  in  West  Tenth  Street,  and  the  perfect  air  of 
everything  connected  with  it !  Ah !  what  a  charm- 
ing frame  for  so  pretty  a  picture  as  yourself !  " 

"  But  there  is  another  side  —  a  far  more  .  .  .  more 
moral  side  to  the  question,"  now  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Auchincloss,  "  which  your  Aunt  Augusta,  my  dear, 
seems  to  overlook." 

Olivia  burst  out  laughing.  "A  moral  side!"  she 
ejaculated,  and  then  her  face  quickly  grew  serious 
again,  as  though  she  had  heard  something  it  were 
sacrilege  to  make  light  of.  "  I  don't  see  how  such  a 
mere  buying-and-selljng  marriage  as  this,"  she  said, 
"can  possibly  be  spoken  of  as  having  a  moral  side." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  grew  a  little  pinker  in  each  cheek, 
and  her  small  head  moved  somewhat  farther  back  on 
the  support  of  her  slender  neck.  "Oh,  my  dear/" 
she  reproached  offendedly.  "As  if  I  could  recom- 
mend what  you  call  a  buying-and-selling  marriage ! 
No,  indeed,  Olivia!  I  was  thinking  of  the  really 
beautiful  protection  which  he  would  bestow  on  you, 
now  that  your  poor  father  is  gone,  and  you  are  left  so 
unexpectedly  without  a  home  of  your  own.  And 
then  his  having  been  your  papa's  friend  and  partner 
—  that  gives  the  Avhole  matter  so  engaging  a  little 
touch  of  romance !  " 

"I  see  no  touch  of  romance,"  said  Olivia,  as  her 
mouth  hardened.  "  I  see  no  touch  at  all  except  a 
commercial  one." 

"  My  dear ! "  cried  Mrs.  Auchincloss. 


154  OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  shock  you,  Aunt  Letitia,  but  that  is 
the  only  view  I  can  take  of  the  whole  proposition.  I 
saw  a  good  deal  of  this  kind  of  marrying  while  I  was 
abroad  —  or  rather  I  heard  of  a  good  deal.  But  I  never 
became  in  the  least  used  to  it,  I  assure  you.  And  I 
must  also  state,  if  you've  no  objection,  that  you  are 
the  first  person  whom  I  have  ever  heard  make  even 
the  faintest  attempt  to  invest  it  with  anything  resem- 
bling sentiment." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  was  about  to  offer  some  reply,  but 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  spoke  before  she  had  time. 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine,"  said  the  latter  lady,  "  hasn't 
expected  you  to  look  at  it  from  any  sentimental  point 
of  view.  He  instructed  me  to  say  that  he  would  very 
gladly  settle  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  you, 
Olivia,  the  day  that  you  and  he  are  married." 

This  monetary  disclosure  affected  the  girl  like  a 
piece  of  sheer  brutality.  .  .  .  Her  two  aunts  left  her, 
that  afternoon,  without  having  accomplished  the  least 
satisfactory  results. 

It  was  only  a  few  hours  later  that  Mrs.  Ottarson 
keenly  irritated  Olivia  by  a  speech  in  which  her  niece 
failed  to  recognize  just  the  desired  amount  of  sympa- 
thetic repugnance  for-this  anomalous  marriage. 

"Upon  my  word,  Aunt  Thyrza,"  cried  the  girl, 
almost  flaring  up  at  her  prized  friend  and  kinswoman, 
"I'm  half  tempted  to  believe  that  you  doitt  think 
Mrs.  Auchincloss  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  to  endorse  such  a  proceeding!  " 

"  Well,"  came  the  answer,  given  with  uncharacter- 
istic delay,  "  I  can't  really  say,  'Livia,  that  they're  t' 
blame  't  all.  You  see,  they  know  jus'  how  splendid 
you'd  be  fixed,  deary,  'f  you  did  consent,  and " 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  155 

Olivia  hurried  from  the  room,  in  high  annoyance. 
It  made  her  feel  so  alone  and  deserted  by  everybody, 
when  even  her  Aunt  Thyrza  began  to  share  these  pro- 
saically hard-grained  opinions.  Still,  she  knew  that  in 
her  case  only  the  warmest  personal  love  inspired  them. 
There  was,  at  least,  comforting  afterthought  in  this 
reflection.  Aunt  Thyrza  was  incapable  of  any  save 
affectionate  motives  toward  her. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  that  same  evening,  and 
just  as  Olivia  was  on  the  verge  of  retiring  for  the 
night,  that  she  sought  Mrs.  Ottarson  once  more.  She 
held  a  note  in  her  hand,  hastily  written  by  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite,  and  despatched  thither  by  a  messenger. 

"He  —  he  is  very  ill,"  she  stammered.  "They  fear 
he  is  dying.  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  And  so  sudden ! 
Neither  of  my  aunts  even  spoke  of  his  being  ill  while 
they  were  here  this  afternoon." 

"  Who  on  earth  do  you  mean,  'Livia  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Ottarson,  staring  at  her  niece.  "Who's  Ae?" 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine,"  answered  Olivia,  showing  the 
note  she  had  just  received.  "  Think  of  it !  The  doc- 
tors say  there  is  hardly  more  than  a  hope  for  his  life. 
He  may  not  live  even  two  days  longer?" 


156  OLIVIA   DELAPLAIXE. 


IX. 


OLIVJA'S  aunts  had  purposely  refrained  from  men- 
tioning to  her  the  illness  of  Mr.  Delaplaine.  They 
had  decided  that  such  information  could  carry  with  it 
no  force  of  inducement.  Besides  gout  was  such  a 
volatile  sort  of  complaint ;  it  pounced  upon  you  to-day 
and  darted  away  from  you  to-morrow.  In  a  short 
time  Mr.  Delaplaine  might  be  well,  and  able  to  con- 
tinue whatever  work  they,  the  coadjutors  in  his  cause, 
might  successfully  have  started. 

But  Olivia's  reception  of  their  advances  had  been 
worse  than  merely  unfavorable.  She  would  not  marry 
her  late  father's  partner,  as  she  bluntly  but  rather 
picturesquely  said,  though  he  should  promise  to  clothe 
her  in  cloth-of-gold  and  to  hang  her  all  over  with 
diamonds.  Mrs.  Auchincloss's  most  dexterous  quib- 
bles and  Jesuitries  were  effete  as  implements  for  un- 
dermining a  prejudice  like  Olivia's,  founded  upon 
youth,  health  and  nature,  and  similar  to  the  enclasping 
outgrowth  of  all  three.  As  for  Mrs.  Satterthwaite, 
she  left  the  house  considerably  more  hopeful  than  her 
sister. 

"Only  give  him  another  chance  or  two,"  she  said, 
with  an  oracular  nod,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away, 
through  that  section  of  Twenty-Third  Street  where 
the  boarding-houses  are,  so  to  speak,  epidemic.  "  He's 
an  extremely  attractive  man,  is  Spencer,  and  I  don't 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  157 

believe  many  girls  could  resist  him,  even  at  his  pres- 
ent age,  if  he  really  made  up  his  mind  that  they  must 
surrender." 

"I  knew  you  always  thought  him  remarkably  fasci- 
nating," replied  Mrs.  Auchincloss.  There  had  been 
those  bitter  little  breezes  of  scandal  in  other  days,  and 
perhaps  the  elder  lady  had  now  made  some  stealthy 
allusion  to  the  fact  of  their  having  once  blown.  Still, 
if  this  were  the  case,  she  gave  her  very  insinuation  a 
sort  of  non-committal  harmlessness  by  immediately 
adding:  "But  don't  you  think  he  caw  plead  his  own 
cause  in  a  little  while  ?  Is  this  last  attack  so  serious  a 
one,  after  all  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it's  the  worst  he  has  ever  had,"  said 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  "and  he  has  had  two  or  three 
rather  bad  ones.  I  sent  to  his  house  early  this  morn- 
ing to  inquire  how  he  was,  and  the  answer  came  that 
he  had  passed  a  painful  night." 

That  evening  at  dinner  the  Satterthwaite  family 
freely  discussed  Mr.  Delaplaine's  offer  of  marriage  to 
Olivia.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  neither  the  conscience 
nor  the  temperament  of  one  who  keeps  a  secret  well ; 
she  had  found  herself  unable  to  refrain  from  "just  tell- 
ing Emmeline,"  after  holding  a  rather  long  talk  with  her 
husband  on  the  subject  of  their  friend's  infatuation. 
Emmeline  had  soon  afterward  found  her  sister,  Elaine* 
and  with  a  little  scream  of  excitement  had  seized  the 
latter  by  each  of  her  shoulders,  exclaiming :  "  Oh,  such 
a  piece  of  news !  Mamma  says  I  musn't  breathe  it 
yet ;  but  I  can't  help  letting  you  know  what  it  is. 
Elly  ..."  And  after  that,  in  a  very  short  time, 
nearly  the  whole  Satterthwaite  household  proper  had 
become  aware  of  it,  and  before  the  dinner-hour  this 


158  OLIVIA   LELAPLAINE. 

same  day  one  of  the  French  maids  had  succinctly  and 
exhaustively  conveyed  it  to  one  of  the  footmen. 

The  Satterthwaites  always  talked  in  the  most  un- 
restricted manner  before  their  servants.  "  Oh,  d —  it," 
Bleecker  Satterthwaite  had  once  said,  with  that  mix- 
ture of  a  yawn  and  a  sneer  which  his  son  Aspinwall 
had  tried  zealously  to  imitate  eyer  since  the  great 
territory  of  dudedom  had  found  in  him  one  of  its 
most  loyal  denizens,  "  if  our  servants  like  listening,  let 
them  listen.  It's  about  the  only  real  pastime  they 
have  —  that  and  pilfering  the  sherry  or  the  cigars. 
There  are  certain  acts  of  mischief  that  I  expect  from  a 
servant  in  my  employ ;  but  what  I  can  not  and  will 
not  stand  is  their  having  the  impudence  to  allow  me 
to  find  them  out." 

Sentiments  of  this  kind  had  more  than  once  wakened 
a  disgusted  shudder  in  Archibald  Auchincloss ;  but 
then  between  the  large-nosed,  judicial,  moralistic  law- 
yer and  his  red-haired,  red-moustached,  jaunty,  world- 
worn,  devil-may-care  brother-in-law  lay  a  big,  tossing 
channel  of  uncongeniality. 

The  Satterthwaite  dinner  had  nearly  reached  its 
completion,  but  the  two  youngest  members  of  the 
family,  Peyster,  aged  twelve,  and  Lulu,  aged  ten,  had 
been  detained  by  the  gayeties  of  an  afternoon  dan- 
cing-class, and  had  not  yet  appeared.  Their  continued 
absence  had  just  been  referred  to  by  their  mother; 
and  Elaine,  who  would  have  been  pretty  in  a  placid, 
creamy  style  if  her  eyes  had  not  had  so  much  languid 
superciliousness  in  them,  had  drawlingly  said: 

"It's  a  perfect  luxury  to  have  those  two  children 
away.  I  always  dread  the  evenings  when  we  dine 
alone  and  they  don't  have  to  stay  upstairs." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  159 

"You'd  belter  hurry,  then,  El,"  said  her  father, 
reaching  out  for  an  olive,  "Lulu  will  be  coining  down 
for  good  and  sending  you  to  the  background,  as  sure 
as  you're  born." 

"I  declare,"  pouted  Elaine,  "it  makes  one  nervous 
the  way  you  and  mamma  are  forever  talking  marriage 
to  us  girls.  Doesn't  it  you,  Em  ?  " 

"No;  not  a  bit,"  said  Einmeline,  cracking  an  al- 
mond too  thoroughly,  and  then  hunting  for  its  edible 
fragments  amid  the  chaos  of  tawny  shells  on  her 
plate.  "It  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  I  can  always 
get  somebody.  So  can  you,  Elly.  Marriage  is  a  good 
deal  like  the  German,  ./find.  No  girl,  if  she  plays  her 
cards  right,  need  go  home  from  a  ball  without  a  partner. 
There's  always  somebody  you  can  hint  to  at  the  very 
last  minute,  even  if  you've  snubbed  him  for  twenty 
evenings  before,  and  who'll  be  willing  to  dance  with 
you  if  you  only  hint  hard  enough.  My  last  minute 
hasn't  come,  though,  when  it's  a  question  of  marrying. 
And  if  it  had  .  .  .  why,  look  at  Olivia." 

Aspinwall  here  giggled.  He  sat  superb  in  evening- 
dress,  with  collar  so  high  that  you  could  scarcely 
imagine  his  wearing  it  without  much  physical  pain, 
and  so  glossy  and  stiff-looking  that  it  appeared  to  be 
made  from  some  new  material,  like  a  snow-white  tin. 

"'Pon  my  word,  Em,"  scoffed  her  brother,  "I  like 
your  conceit.  I  wonder  what  Spencer  Delaplaine 
would  say  if  he  heard  you  underrate  him  like  that. 
For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how  Olivia  could  do  much 
better  —  or  how  any  girl  could." 

"Neither  do  I,"  declared  Elaine,  who  prided  her- 
self on  regarding  marriage  with  a  freezing  philosophy 
in  whose  air  the  most  hardy  spray  of  sentiment  needs 


160  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

must  perish.  "And  what  an  idiot  she'll  be  if  she 
doesn't  take  him !  " 

"  There's  only  one  objection  to  it  all,"  mused  Em- 
meline,  as  she  cracked  another  almond. 

"What  is  that?"  said  her  mother,  a  little  sharply. 
If  any  one  in  their  most  undomestic  of  domestic 
circles  ever  became  guilty  of  stupid  sentimentality 
it  was  sure  to  be  Emrneline.  But  the  daughter  of 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  agreeably  disappointed  her,  this 
time,  as  she  now  went  on,  between  her  spasms  of 
squirrel-like  munching. 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  there's  always  something 
about  a  young  widow  that  isn't  precisely  good  style. 
Yes,  young  widows  are  somehow  vulgar.  Their 
mourning  is  so  apt  to  give  them  a  fast  look." 

Elaine  replied  with  a  recognizing  nod.  "  I  under- 
stand that  feeling,"  she  said ;  "  I've  had  it  myself 
about  young  widows,  without  just  being  able  to 
explain  it." 

"Oh,  children/"  cried  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  throwing 
back  her  head  in  laughter.  "  What  will  you  say  next  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Satterthwaite, 
"if  Delaplaine  lived  twenty  years  yet.  He  can  count 
on  his  fingers  every  cocktail  he  ever  drank  before  din- 
ner, no  doubt;  and  he  never  drew  into  his  lungs  those 
vile  cigarettes  that  Aspy's  killing  himself  with." 

"It's  a  pleasant  way  of  dying,"  smiled  Aspinwall, 
above  the  pale  acclivity  of  collar. 

"  Oh,  of  course  Olivia  will,"  exclaimed  Elaine,  as 
though  the  improbability  of  a  permanently  negative 
side  of  the  question  had  just  struck  her  in  a  fresh 
convincing  light.  "  Common-sense  will  come  to  her 
rescue." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  161 

"She  hasn't  much  common-sense,"  said  Emineline. 
"Just  see  how  she  behaved  in  going — ." 

"  Em ! "  broke  in  her  mother  chidingly ;  and  Emme- 
line  stopped  short. 

There  was,  after  all,  a  rien  ne  ta  plus  to  the  topics 
which  the  Satterthwaites  aired  before  their  servants. 
They  did  not  desire  that  quite  everything  should  be 
heedlessly  spoken  of.  It  was  well  enough  that  their 
majestic,  white-cravatted  butler  and  his  decorous, 
white-cravatted  assistant  should  hear  them  say  gos- 
sipy, daring,  heartless,  or  even  ill-bred  things ;  but  it 
was  wholly  another  affair  that  these  functionaries 
should  learn  a  syllable  from  their  employers'  own 
lips  about  that  horrible  Mrs.  Ottarson.  The  Satter- 
thwaites certainly  lived  with  a  quiet  commingled  ease 
and  splendor  which  few  of  the  "  new  people  "  whom 
Mrs.  Auchincloss  tabooed  could  effectually  have  imi- 
tated, even  in  these  days  of  plentiful  upholsterers  and 
eager  caterers.  Their  money  was  very  probably  at 
the  root  of  all  their  tastefulness,  but  they  had  the  art 
of  spending  it,  somehow,  as  if  it  were  drawn  from  no 
brand-new  pocket-book.  And  yet  there  was  the  tone 
of  a  certain  hard,  crude  Americanism  about  their 
household  which  might  have  taxed  the  severest  con- 
demnation of  foreign  critics.  They  lived  in  the  midst 
of  beautiful  statues,  tapestries  and  pictures ;  they  ate 
off  glittering  silver  and  costly  china;  on  every  side 
of  them  was  refinement,  grace,  elegance,  dignity ;  and 
yet  as  personalities,  characters,  human  beings,  they  all 
seemed  to  delight  in  a  sort  of  mechanical,  dispassion- 
ate, semi-wooden  indifference.  Almost  the  only  thing 
which  any  of  them  appeared  to  do  with  much  real 
earnestness  was  to  ridicule  the  people  forming  his  or 


162  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

her  acquaintance.  It  should  not  be  forgotten  how- 
ever, that  out-of-door  sports  roused  them.  Tobog- 
ganing and  skating  at  Tuxedo  during  the  recent 
winter  had  pricked  the  younger  members  of  the 
family  into  a  positive  enthusiasm.  The  girls  would 
sometimes  drive  their  father  out  while  in  town,  and 
at  Newport  they  incessantly  drove  with  merely  a 
coachman  at  the  rear  of  the  vehicle.  Down  to  little 
Lulu  they  were  all  devotedly  fond  of  horseflesh. 
Aspinwall  was  a  noted  polo-player,  and  his  younger 
brother,  Peyster,  only  twelve  years  old,  longed  for 
that  hour  when  the  paternal  veto  should  be  with- 
drawn from  a  clipped  pony  and  a  mallet. 

Lulu  and  Peyster  came  into  the  room  soon  after- 
ward, and  were  at  once  rather  tartly  reprimanded  by 
their  mother  for  being  so  late  home  from  the  dancing- 
class.  They  need  not  have  stayed  so  long,  ran  the 
maternal  expostulation;  they  knew  perfectly  well  the 
hour  for  dinner,  and  that  to-day  was  one  of  their  days 
to  dine  with  the  family.  Mamma  announced  that  she 
had  a  great  mind,  as  it  was,  to  make  them  both  dine 
upstairs. 

Meanwhile   the  two  men-servants  were  waiting  on 

O 

them,  there  in  the  big,  stately,  ornate  dining-room, 
as  if  they  had  been  a  little  prince  and  princess.  Pey- 
ster was  an  awkward,  sluggish-looking  boy,  with  a 
pair  of  salient,  fan-shaped  ears;  but  Lulu  had  a 
bewitching,  elfin  little  face  that  seemed  to  be  set 
within  the  centre  of  a  golden  cloud  of  hair  as  the 
disc  of  the  sunflower  is  set  midmost  its  yellow 
leaves. 

"I  know  it  was  dreadfully  wrong  of  us  to  stay  so 
late,"  Lulu  said,  taking  a  cautious  spoonful  of  the  hot 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  163 

soup  which  had  just  been  handed  her;  "but  oh,  I  was 
having  such  a  glorious  time  !  " 

o  o 

"Now,  she  kep'  me,"  blurted  Peyster,  who  swal- 
lowed his  soup  like  a  young  ploughboy,  and  with 
whom  the  word  "now"  was  ubiquitous  in  his  dis- 
course, like  the  "yap"  of  Homeric  text.  "Now,  I 
wanted  to  come  sooner.  Ask  Fran9oise  if  I  didn't. 
Now,  it  ain't  fair  to  blame  me.  Is  it,  Lulu." 

"  Oh,  how  tiresome  you  are,  Peystey ! "  exclaimed 
Lulu,  with  the  manner  of  a  girl  twice  her  years.  Em- 
meline,  Elaine  and  their  parents  exchanged  glances  as 
the  quaint,  old-young  little  creature  continued : 
"Please  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  explain  to 
mamma." 

"  Go  ahead,"  sanctioned  Peyster,  stolidly,  putting 
the  point  of  his  spoon  into  his  mouth,  although  he 
had  been  told  a  hundred  times  that  he  must  not  com- 
mit this  illicit  act. 

The  whole  family,  including  young  Peyster,  thought 
little  Lulu  capital  fun.  Her  precocity  was  a  source  of 
endless  entertainment  to  them,  but  their  feelings  ap- 
peared definitely  to  stop  just  there.  They  never 
petted  Lulu,  or  showed  her  the  least  spark  of  tender- 
ness. But  then  tenderness,  or  the  slightest  exhibition 
of  anything  that  resembled  it,  had  no  place  whatever 
among  any  of  their  home  relationships.  None  of  them 
ever  seemed  to  have  time  enough  for  a  revelation  of 
brotherly,  sisterly,  or  even  conjugal  fondness,  provided 
he  or  she  had  the  faintest  desire  to  indulge  it.  They 
all  appeared  to  be  rather  fairly  pleased  with  one  an- 
other, not  to  be  by  any  means  bored  with  one  another, 
to  like  one  another's  society  moderately  well  when  noth- 
ing of  a  more  exciting  quality  offered ;  and  there  it 


1G4  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

stopped.  Affection  was  a  word  of  obsolete  meaning 
with  them.  Emmeline  had  given  signs  of  possessing 
a  certain  warmth  and  sensibility  that  corresponded  to 
it,  but  long  ago  these  had  been  discountenanced  and 
slighted  by  her  kindred. 

"  You  see,  mamma,"  re-commenced  Lulu,  "  I  had  a 
perfectly  splendid  partner  for  the  German  —  Charlton 
Van  Dam.  He  is  awfully  old,  you  know  —  he's  four- 
teen and  a  half,  and  he  never  dances  with  any  girl 
under  eleven  ;  he  makes  a  point  of  it.  To-day  every- 
body was  surprised  when  he  asked  me.  And  we 
danced  second  couple  —  Beekman  Van  Horn  led, 
and  oh,  it  was  all  just  too  lovely!  I  was  taken  out 
twelve  times.  Carrie  Livingston,  who  danced  next  us 
with  Willie  Winthrop,  said  ten.  But  she  told  a  story, 
and  she  knew  she  told  it.  She  was  jealous  of  Charity 
—  Oh,  what  do  you  think?  He  asked  me  to  call  him 
Charity  f  I  laughed,  and  I  said:  'Oh,  no,  sir;  I 
guess  I  won't  do  anything  so  bold  as  that.1  And  he 
said,  '  What  makes  you  think  it  bold  ? '  And  I  said, 
'  Why,  you  seemed  to  think  it  so  the  other  day  when 
you  snubbed  Lily  Van  Vechten  for  calling  you 
Charity.'  And  he  got  just  as  red  as  ever  he  could 
get,  and  says  he,  'Lily  Van  Vechten  and  Miss  Lulu 
Satterthwaite  are  two  very  different  persons.'  And 
oh,  during  the  German  he  was  just  too  sweet,  and  I 
had  to  wait  till  it  was  over,  because  if  I  hadn't  I 
know  he'd  have  been  angry,  arid  would  never  have 
asked  me  again." 

"  All  of  which  I  think  a  rather  lame  excuse,  Lulu," 
said  her  mother.  "  It's  getting  worse  and  worse,  the 
way  that  children  like  you  imitate  the  manners  of 
their  elders.  I  don't  know  where  it  will  stop.  If 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  165 

Charity  Van  Dam  is  a  conceited  little  boy  (and  his 
mother  told  me  a  few  days  ago  that  he  was  getting 
so  conceited  she  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  him) 
that  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  find  plenty  of 
other  partners." 

"  Now,  I  always  get  partners,"  here  asserted  Pey- 
ster,  having  finished  his  soup  and  begun  to  attack 
his  fish.  "And  (now)  I  don't  beg  for  'em,  either. 
Only  (now)  I  fight  shy  of  the  old  girls  that  put  on 
fearful  airs,  and  (now)  think  themselves  to  be  such 
mighty  big  swells." 

"Oh,  Peystey's  contented  with  any  sort  of  trash!" 
exclaimed  Lulu,  tossing  her  head,  with  its  fleece  of 
nebulous  gold,  in  fine  disdain. 

They  all  laughed  at  this,  and  Elaine  said,  soon  after- 
ward, in  her  frigidly  critical  way,  to  her  little  sister: 

"Lulu,  you're  thinking  of  these  matters  quite  too 
soon.  They'll  give  you  heartburnings  enough  when 
you  get  older."  She  turned  to  her  mother :  "  Mam- 
ma, you  must  make  that  child  go  to  bed  earlier  and 
have  less  excitement.  She's  dark  rings  round  her 
eyes  at  this  moment." 

"Perhaps  they're  engagement  rings;  coming  events 
cast  their  shadows  before,"  said  Aspinwall,  who  prided 
himself  on  smartness  of  this  nature,  and  had  won,  by 
reason  of  it,  the  repute  of  being  witty  among  a  little 
band  of  rosebud  maidens  whom  it  plunged  into  gig- 
gling ecstasies. 

"  So  much  excitement  is  killing  to  the  child,"  said 
Emmeline,  but  in  a  lazy  tone,  as  if  she  rather  thought 
her  statement  open  to  contradiction. 

"I'm  no  longer  a  child,"  bristled  Lulu,  quite  haugh- 
tily. "  Some  girls  of  my  age  are  children,  it's  true. 


166  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

But  I'm  extremely  advanced;  I  heard  mamma  say  so 
to  Mrs.  Arcularius,  the  other  day  at  school,  and  of 
course  it's  true ;  everybody  thinks  it  of  me.  I  don't 
kno\v  how  many  times  I've  been  complimented  on  it 
during  the  past  few  months." 

"  Lord  Scarletcoat  says  that  he  hasn't  seen  any 
children  since  he  has  been  in  America,"  said  Elaine, 
"  and  I'm  almost  inclined  to  think  he's  right." 

Lulu  made  a  wry  face.  "  I  should  like  to  have  Lord 
Scarletcoat  presented  to  me"  she  said,  with  that  look 
as  of  a  wise  little  fairy  which  so  often  overspread  her 
features.  "7"  could  show  him  a  great  many  children. 
Poor  Peystey,  there,  for  instance.  Why,  I  sometimes 
think  Peystey  doesn't  know  enough  to  come  in  when 
it  rains." 

"  You  knoic  enough,"  said  her  father,  "  but  I  think 
that  in  most  cases  you'd  rather  stay  out  and  have  the 
fun  of  getting  wet." 

"That  depends  on  who  staid  out  with  me,"  mur- 
mured Lulu,  drooping  her  eyes  and  shaking  her  nim- 
bu.--clad  head.  "  If  it  were  only  Charity  Van  Dam  I 
think  I  could  stand  a  good  deal  of  wetting,  papa,  and 
not  feel  it." 

This  created  more  laughter,  in  which  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  did  not  join  ;  for  just  a  minute  or  two  pre- 
vious a  note  had  been  brought  her,  which  she  was  now 
intently  reading.  Her  face  presently  wore  a  most 
troubled  look  as  she  said  across  the  table  to  her  hus- 
band : 

"  Ddaplaine's  a  good  deal  worse." 

"  You  don't  mean  it,"  was  the  answer.  "  Seriously 
ill  ?  " 

"  They're  afraid  so." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  167 

"  Who  writes  ?  " 

"That  young  Adrian  —  his  secretary,  or  valet,  or 
whatever  he  calls  him.  Don't  you  remember  whom 
I  mean  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  that's  of  no  consequence.  What  is  it 
that  he  writes  ?  " 

"He  sends  word,  at  Delaplaine's  dictation,  that 
pneumonia  is  feared,  and  a  bad  night  is  expected 
—  much  worse  than  last  night  was." 

"Pneumonia,  and  at  Mr.  Delaplaine's  age?"  broke 
in  Lulu,  as  if  she  spoke  to  her  own  thoughts.  "  That 
certainly  is  serious." 

There  was  irresistible  comedy  in  these  grave  words 
as  the  tiny  child  uttered  them,  and  they  were  quickly 
answered  by  a  burst  of  laughter  to  which  possibly  the 
servants  contributed  their  involuntary  share. 

"Lulu!"  exclaimed  Emmeline.  "I  declare  there's 
something  about  you  positively  uncanny,  at  times. 
You  make  me  afraid  of  you,  with  that  queer-looking 
little  face  of  yours  under  its  fluffy  hair — as  if  you 
knew  ten  times  more  than  you've  any  business  to 
know." 

The  little  face  looked,  indeed,  as  if  some  feverish, 
unwholesome  influence  might  be  at  work  in  the  frail 
body  below  it.  Two  touches  of  color  nearly  always 
burned  vivid  in  its  cheeks,  and  its  hazel  eyes  had  con- 
stantly that  dry  sparkle  which  betokens  in  a  child  of 
Lulu's  years  an  overplus  of  perilous  mental  activity. 
There  are  some  children  to  whom  surroundings  of 
continual  gayety  are  like  the  effects  of  a  daily  nervine. 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  would  have  been  offended  and 
wounded  if  any  one  had  told  her  that  she  was  bring- 
ing up  her  little  daughter  with  the  most  imprudent 


168  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

disregard  of  a  nervous  system  curiously  sensitive  and 
an  intellect  exceptionally  premature.  She  was  really 
not  bringing  up  Lulu  at  all,  but  letting  the  clever, 
wayward,  brightly-gifted  creature  breathe  just  the 
luxurious,  fashionable  atmosphere  on  which  Emmeline 
and  Elaine  had  flourished  well  enough  in  their  juve- 
nile clays.  Often  for  a  full  twenty-four  hours  she 
would  not  even  see  Lulu  at  all.  But  she  had  perfect 
trust  in  the  French  bonne  who  was  appointed  to  guard 
the  child.  Of  course  Fran9oise  would  instantly  notify 
her  if  there  should  be  anything  the  matter  with  Lulu. 
But  Fran§oise  never  brought  any  ill-reports  of  a  sani- 
tary kind.  Sometimes  the  nurse  would  come  to  her 
with  sad  tales  of  Lulu's  rebellion  and  contumacy. 
Then  a  maternal  scolding  would  occur,  severe  or  light, 
as  the  derelict  behavior  demanded.  But  no  bodily 
ailment  was  ever  spoken  of,  and  Mrs.  Arcularius,  prin- 
cipal of  the  very  select  school  where  Lulu  had  lately 
been  enrolled  as  a  pupil,  had  no  accounts  to  render 
except  of  the  dear  pet's  highly  amusing  speeches  and 
her  occasional  mischievous  proclivities.  Mrs.  Arcu- 
larius was  that  kind  of  school-disciplinarian  who  never 
bored  the  parents  of  her  scholars  (especially  when 
they  were  persons  of  great  social  importance  like  the 
Satterthwaites)  by  depressing  tales  about  either  the 
moral  or  physical  condition  of  their  offspring.  She 
was  a  lady  who  had  long  ago  found  this  course  of 
action  militant  against  her  widely-conceded  vogue  as 
a  successful  instructress  of  aristocratic  younger  New 
York. 

A  short  time  after  dinner,  that  same  evening,  and 
while  her  husband  was  smoking  a  cigar  and  playing  a 
game  of  billiards  downstairs  in  the  billiard-room  with 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  169 

his  son,  Aspinwnll,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  cloaked  and 
bonneted,  sought  her  easy-going  lord,  and  said  : 

"  Bleecker,  I'm  going  to  see  Delaplaine.  I  suppose 
there's  no  impropriety  in  it,  as  he's  so  ill.  But  of 
course  you  can  go  too,  if  you  like." 

"Thanks,  Augusta.  I  don't  think  I  will  go."  He 
stood  with  his  cigar  between  two  fingers  and  his  back 
against  the  billiard-table,  while  Aspinwall,  who  was 
bored  at  being  interrupted  in  the  game,  had  dropped, 
with  a  simulation  of  dreary  exhaustion,  upon  one  of 
the  lounges  that  lined  the  apartment.  "I've  an  en- 
gagement at  half-past  nine  and "  (he  took  out  his 
watch,  giving  it  a  glance)  "it's  not  long  from  that 
time  now." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  She  did 
not  ask  what  the  engagement  was.  She  had  expected 
to  find  her  husband  unwilling  to  go  with  her.  If  he 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  do  so  she  would  have  been 
somewhat  annoyed.  She  had  no  concern  whatever 
with  his  engagements.  He  might  go  or  come  as  he 
chose.  Pie  was  the  father  of  her  children,  but  she 
had  never  loved  him  as  a  wife  should  love  a  husband. 
She  had  married  him  because  he  was  Bleecker  Satter- 
thwaite and  a  "catch."  The  engagement  to  which 
he  had  referred  might  or  might  not  concern  an  infi- 
delity. It  caused  her  no  thrill  of  jealousy  to  think  on 
this  unsavory  conjugal  subject.  She  did  not  want  to 
gener  herself  with  Bleecker's  private  affairs.  Every 
man  had  them,  and  so  long  as  he  kept  himself  out  of  a 
scandal  publique  she  was  perfectly  contented  that  he 
should  follow  in  the  beaten  footsteps  of  all  the  other 
men  who  resembled  him. 

She  entered  her  coupe  a  little  later,  and  had  herself 


170  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE, 

driven  to  the  house  of  Spencer  Delaplaine.  In  a  short 
time  after  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  Tenth  Street 
house,  she  stood  at  Delaplaine's  bedside.  The  sick 
man  received  her  with  a  cordial  clasp  of  the  hand. 
He  looked  ill ;  his  face  was  nearly  colorless. 

" It's  you,  Augusta ?"  he  faintly  said.  "How  good 
of  you  to  come ! " 

"  Not  good  at  all,  my  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite.  "  And  so  you're  not  as  well  as  when  we  last 
saw  each  other?" 

"No.  The  fact  is  I'm  pretty  ill.  Dr.  Clancey  and 
Dr.  Robeson  have  just  been  here  together.  I  don't 
think  they're  at  all  sure  that  I  am  going  to  pull 
through.  It's  this  right  lung  now,  with  the  other 
threatened." 

Mi-s.  Satterthwaite  had  by  this  time  seated  herself 
near  the  bed.  "  You  must  not  dream  of  giving  up," 
she  exclaimed.  "There  is  so  much  in  that  —  not  giv- 
ing up.  Have  you  a  nurse  ?  " 

"Adrian  has  gone  to  fetch  a  nurse.  Meanwhile 
I've  one  of  my  servants;  she's  there  in  the  next  room. 
But  I  want  to  speak  with  you  before  Adrian  comes 
back." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  a  chilled,  nervous  feeling, 
now.  She  dreaded  lest  she  should  be  made  the 
recipient  of  something  funereally  moribund,  and  she 
was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  woman  to  whom  any  confi- 
dence of  this  character  would  be  endurable  even  on 
grounds  of  charity. 

To  be  intimate  with  Spencer  Delaplaine  while  a 
flourishing  and  popular  millionaire  was  a  decidedly 
different  position  from  that  of  sitting  at  his  bedside 
and  hearing  him  breathe  forth  some  farewell  charge 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  171 

that  would  have  about  it  the  very  odor  of  the  grave. 
She  had  never  precisely  believed  Delaplaine's  story 
that  this  handsome  young  Adrian  was  no  closer  to 
him  than  being  the  son  of  a  distant  relative  who  had 
died  as  a  clerk  in  his  employ ;  it  might  prove  (why 
not?)  a  horrible  little  history  that  would  bring  the 
two  into  much  nearer  relations.  Besides  Augusta 
Satterthwaite  was  not  the  woman  to  "put  herself 
out "  in  any  way  whatever  for  a  friend.  If  it  came  to 
a  question  of  whether  or  no  she  cared  to  have  friends 
at  all,  she  might,  under  cover  of  secrecy,  have  con- 
fessed to  you  that  successful,  accomplished  or  fasci- 
nating acquaintances  continually  stood  for  her  in  the 
place  of  them.  She  was  prepared  to  make  no  amica- 
ble sacrifices,  and  she  demanded  none  from  others. 
What  so  many  critics  have  condemned  as  the  super- 
ficiality of  social  life  pleased  and  satisfied  her.  She 
wanted  nothing  truer  or  deeper.  Nor  did  she  wish  it 
to  appear,  after  the  way  of  her  sister,  that  she  wanted 
anything  truer  or  deeper.  In  her  callous  worldliness, 
at  least  she  was  not  hypocritical.  She  now  keenly 
regretted  having  come  this  evening.  It  might  turn 
out  a  visit  with  odiously  compromising  results ;  for 
she  could  not  in  decency  refuse  to  grant  him  almost 
whatever  he  might  ask,  provided  he  asked  it  as  a 
dying  man.  There  were  things  one  might  hate  most 
heartily  to  do,  but  having  the  courage  to  risk  its 
getting  abroad  that  one  had  refused  them  was  chal- 
lenging a  still  stronger  disinclination. 

"  What  is  it  you  would  like  to  say,  Spencer,' "  she 
asked,  and  without  the  least  ring  in  her  voice  of  the 
selfish  anxiety  she  felt. 

He  was  silent  for  some  time,  staring,  as  it  seemed, 


172  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE, 

at  one  of  the  rare  engravings  which  lined  the  walls  of 
his  charmingly  tasteful  chamber.  A  clock  on  the 

O     «r 

velvet-draped  mantel  ticked  audibly  in  the  stillness, 
and  shaped,  with  its  brisk,  sharp  vibrations,  imaginary 
words  of  foreboding  to  her  who  sat  and  waited  there 
at  the  bedside.  Her  relief  was  excessive  when  she  at 
length  heard  Delaplaine  answer : 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  .  .  .  Olivia." 
"Olivia?"  she  repeated,  trying  not  to  let  him  see 
how  glad  that  one  name  had  made  her.  There  were 
no  unpleasant  revelations  that  he  could  utter  concera- 
ing  her  niece ;  she  was  well  enough  aware  of  his  in- 
ability here.  But  he  might  say,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  it  would  prove  very  welcome  to  learn.  He 
might  say  that  he  had  altered  his  will  (or  had  had  one 
drawn  up  for  the  first  time)  in  favor  of  his  old  part- 
ner's only  child.  Then  Olivia  would  perhaps  dis- 
continue casting  shame  upon  her  father's  people  by 
dwelling  with  that  horrid  aunt  on  her  mother's  side, 
and  the  abased  Van  Rensselaer  standard  would  be 
reared  again  from  the  dust. 

"Yes,"  Delaplaine  went  on,  very  slowly  at   first. 
"  You've  seen  her  by  this  time,  I  suppose,  and  you've 
done  as  well  as  you  could." 
"  Oh,  yes ;  I've  done  my  best." 
"  Well,  what  was  your  best  ?  " 
"  I'm  sorry  to  tell  you  it  was  a  failure." 
"Failure?"     He  gave  a  low  laugh  as  he  repeated 
the  word.     But  the  rattle  that  went  with  this  laugh 
showed  the  congested  state  of  his  lungs,  and  set  him 
coughing    in   a   wheezy,    senile,   though    not   violent 
way.     "  She  wouldn't  marry  me,  eh  ? "  he  at  length 
went    on.      "  I    thought   not  —  I   feared   not.      She 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  173 

hushed  you  right  up,  I  suppose,  and  wouldn't  hear 
of  it." 

"Yes." 

"  She  grew  angry,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes  —  and  it  became  plain,  also,  that  she  was 
deeply  wounded.  Finally,  she  refused  to  listen,  and  I 
thought  she  would  be  rude  enough  to  leave  the  room. 
No  doubt  she  would  have  done  so,  too,  if  the  whole 
question  of  the  marriage  had  not  been  abandoned." 

Another  silence  now  followed,  and  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  began  to  assure  herself  that  her  friend  had 
no  dying  act  of  beneficence  to  perform  toward  Olivia. 
He  had  merely  wanted  a  report  of  his  ambassadress's 
proceedings.  As  for  his  dying  at  all,  now  that  his 
watcher  had  become  moi*e  used  to  the  dim  light  in 
which  his  face  had  first  dawned  upon  her,  she  began 
to  have  solid  doubts  of  any  such  demise.  Of  course 
pneumonia  must  go  hard  with  one  of  his  years.  But 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  why  should  there  not  be  an 
excellent  chance  that  he  might  recover — and  marry 
her  niece  yet  ?  Meanwhile  it  was  very  nice  to  reflect 
that  on  his  recovery  he  would  certainly  bear  in  mind 
her  own  friendly  endeavor,  not  to  speak  of  visits  like 
the  present  one.  (Twenty  horse-power  could  not 
have  dragged  her  near  him  if  it  had  been  anything 
catching,  like  typhoid  or  scarlet  fever;  but  then  he 
need  never  dream  of  this.)  Possibly,  at  the  opening 
of  next  season,  he  might  give  a  ball  for  Elaine,  just 
as  he  had  given  one  for  Emmeline.  And  in  that 
case  how  very  fit  and  chic  it  would  look  for  Elaine  to 
receive  at  the  side  of  her  young  cousin,  Mrs.  Spencer 
Delaplaine,  n&e  Van  Rensselaer  ! 

She   had   time  for  these  musings  amid   the   pause 


174  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

which  had  followed  her  last  sentence  addressed  to  the 
invalid.  But  they  did  not  require  many  seconds.  The 
pleasurable  tingle  of  the  egotist  takes  no  longer  than 
the  philanthropist's  most  heroic  one. 

"If  I  should  get  well,  Augusta,"  the  sick  man  pres- 
ently said,  "  I  should  want  to  have  that  girl  for  my 
wife,  just  the  same." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  bowed.  "  So  I  should  imagine," 
she  acceded. 

"  But  I  have  been  thinking.  .  .  ."  Here  he  came 
to  a  dead  stop,  letting  his  voice  fall  suddenly. 

"  You  mean  that  you  may  not  get  well  ?  Oh,  don't 
allow  your  mind  to  brood  upon  that  subject  in  the 
least.  I  must  say  that  so  far  you've  disappointed  me 
very  agreeably.  You  don't  seem  to  be  half  as  ill  as  I 
first  thought  you." 

A  sparkle  crept  into  his  dull  eyes  as  he  fixed  them 
on  her  over-bending  face. 

"  Suppose  she  were  to  come  here  and  .  .  .  and  bid 
me  good-bye.  Her  father's  old  friend,  you  know.  I 
don't  believe  she'd  refuse  it,  do  you?" 

"Refuse  it?    No;  how  could  she?    You  mean.  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  mean  a  genuine  death-bed  farewell.  Don't 
fancy  that  I  don't.  I  admit  I'm  not  yet  past  hope, 
but  that  doesn't  prevent  me  from  being  very  sick  — 
very  sick  indeed  —  with  internal  gout  and  pneumonia 
in  complication.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  suppose  Olivia  came 
here  to-morrow  and  found  me  a  little  worse  .  .  . 
we'll  say  not  exactly  dying  yet,  but  nearer  to  it  than  I 
am  to-night,  and  .  .  .  and  a  proposition  were  made 
to  her  .  .  .?" 

"A  proposition?  Yes?  Well?  What  proposi- 
tion?" 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  175 

The  sparkle  in  those  gray  eyes  of  his,  which  she  had 
so  often  seen  lit  by  the  crafty,  algid  humor  peculiar  to 
the  man,  grew  more  keen  now  as  he  murmured  : 

"  A  proposition  of  marriage." 

"  Marriage  ?  " 

He  stared  up  at  her  from  the  white  pillow.  "  Can't 
you  guess,  Augusta,  what  I'm  driving  at  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  a  blank  look. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you."  .  .  .  And  long  before  she 
left  him  he  had  given  her  a  thorough  explanation. 
Once  or  twice  she  repressed  a  shudder  while  she  lis- 
tened, for  it  all  struck  her  as  not  merely  novel,  but 
even  ghastly  as  well. 


176  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


X. 

THE  note  which  Olivia  received  that  same  evening 
had  been  written  by  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  herself  at  the 
residence  of  Delaplairie.  It  conveyed  the  tidings  that 
the  latter  was  exceedingly  ill,  but  it  bore  no  request 
that  Olivia  should  pay  a  visit  on  the  friend  of  her 
dead  father. 

The  next  morning,  however,  by  about  eleven  o'clock, 
came  a  second  note.  As  Olivia  read  this  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  face  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

It  also  was  written  by  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  and  ran 
as  follows: 

No.  —West  Tenth  Street, 

May—,  188—. 

MY  DEAR  OLIVIA  :  I  have  just  been  holding  a  very  sad 
talk  with  poor  Mr.  Delaplaine.  The  doctors  think  there  is  still 
less  hope  of  his  living  now,  as  the  pneumonic  symptoms  are 
worse  instead  of  better.  This  morning  he  has  been  in  great 
pain,  and  yet  he  would  hold  a  few  words  with  me,  and  they 
have  been  words  which  have  had  you  for  their  subject.  Mr. 
Delaplaine  feels  that  his  end  has  almost  come.  He  had  made  a 
will  several  years  ago,  leaving  all  his  fortune  to  charities  of  vari- 
ous kinds.  But  now  he  has  determined  to  alter  the  will  in  your 
favor.  He  says  that  there  is  no  earthly  reason  why  he  should 
not  do  this  act  of  helpfulness  to  the  child  of  his  oldest  and 
dearest  friend.  His  few  distant  relations  will  not  suffer  from 
the  change  of  the  plan,  for  in  any  case  they  would  not  have 
received  a  dollar  of  his  money.  Mr.  Delaplaine  begs  that  you 
will  come  to  him,  at  the  above  address,  by  two  o'clock  this 
afternoon.  I  will  be  here  to  meet  you.  My  dear  child,  al- 
though I  am  losing  a  devoted  friend  in  Spencer  Delaplaiue,  I 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  177 

cannot  but  congratulate  you  because  of  the  immense  windfall 
of  good  luck  that  promises  to  become  yours.  My  loss  will  be 
your  gain,  but  is  it  not  thus  in  all  the  events  of  life  ?  Pray  do 
not  refuse  to  come.  But  I  know  that  I  need  not  make  this 
petition  of  you,  Olivia,  since  your  natural  humanity  will  not 
permit  you  to  remain  away. 

Your  loving  aunt, 

AUGUSTA  SATTERTHWAITE. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  seen  one  of  the  attending 
physicians  privately  just  before  she  wrote  this  note  to 
her  niece.  Dr.  Clancey  was  a  man  of  extraordinary 
medical  position,  and  he  gave  an  opinion  of  Dela- 
plaine's  case  as  unhesitating  as  it  was  discouraging. 
He  apprehended  a  failure  of  the  heart  in  his  patient, 
though  the  lungs  might  resist  even  the  severe  con- 
gestion burdening  them.  They  were  remarkably  strong 
lungs,  but  the  diagnosis  revealed  a  cardiac  weakness 
from  which  it  might  be  difficult  for  the  patient  to 
rally.  Two  sinking  turns  had  already  occurred ;  there 
was  reason  to  believe  that  the  patient  would  not  resist 
a  third.  Mr.  Delaplaine  had  held  a  conversation  with 
his  lawyer  between  ten  and  eleven  that  morning,  in 
obstinate  contradiction  to  the  orders  of  his  physicians. 
No  bad  result  had  yet  shown  itself,  but  now  at  any 
moment  the  invalid  might  again  collapse.  His  tenac- 
ity was  admirable,  but  he  had  already  trifled  with  it 
most  recklessly. 

"  If  he  is  conscious  at  two  o'clock,"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite, "  he  will,  I  know,  desire  to  see  Miss  Van 
Rensselaer,  the  daughter  of  my  brother,  his  former 
partner,  whose  recent  death  you  are  of  course  aware 
of." 

Dr.    Clancey   gravely   nodded.     "  He   will   see   the 


178  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

young  lady,  or  any  one  except  his  nurse,  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite,"  was  the  answer,  "  at  his  own  imminent 
danger." 

Soon  after  this,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  wrote  to  her 
sister,  imperatively  urging  that  she  should  come  at 
once  to  West  Tenth  Street.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  obeyed 
the  summons.  The  two  sisters  met  in  Delaplaine's 
exquisite  lower  drawing-room. 

"  My  dear  Letitia,"  began  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,"  I  fear 
you  may  think  that  I  have  been  behaving  imprudently." 

"Imprudently,  Augusta?"  As  Mrs.  Auchincloss 
thus  spoke  she  shook  her  head  in  apparent  deprecation 
and  looked  down  at  the  black-gloved  hands  which  she 
had  folded  in  her  lap. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  gave  a  little  agitated  preliminary 
cough,  and  then  softly  plunged  into  the  subject. 
"  Spencer  Delaplaine,  rny  dear,  sent  for  me  last 
evening.  We  had  a  long  talk  together.  He  is 
possessed  with  the  idea  of  settling  all  his  money  upon 
Olivia." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  abruptly  started  up.  "Upon 
Olivia!"  she  exclaimed.  "Before  he  dies?  He  is 
then  so  sure  of  death?" 

"  Not  so  perfectly  sure." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  sisters  met.  Mrs.  Auchincloss 
perceived  that  something  was  being  withheld  from 
her.  But  she  made  no  reply ;  she  waited,  with  her 
most  composed  expression,  for  some  further  announce- 
ment. At  last  it  came. 

"  He  is  bent  upon  asking  Olivia  to  marry  him  —  to 
have  the  ceremony  performed  at  once.  But  ..." 
Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  averted  her  eyes,  and  bit  her 
lips  very  worriedly.  "  Well,  Letitia,  he  does  not  wish 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  179 

that  Olivia,  when  she  comes,  should  know  there  is  any 
chance  whatever  of  his  recovery." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  started  again.  "And  pray  on 
what  account,  Augusta  ?  Does  he  .  .  .  ? "  The  lady 
rose,  with  a  fluttered,  appalled  air,  and  then  reseated 
herself.  "You  can't  mean  that  he  wants  to  —  to  trick 
the  girl  into  marrying  him!  " 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  threw  up  both  hands  toward  the 
ceiling,  and  lifted  her  eyes  at  the  same  time.  "  That 
is  what  I  have  heen  so  terribly  afraid  of,  Letitia !  " 
And  then  the  sisters  looked  at  one  another  quite 
steadily  again.  Each  had  her  own  special  kind  of 
worldliness,  of  artificiality,  perhaps  of  real  evil  as 
well.  But  each  also  had  her  own  method  of  conceal- 
ment. If,  just  at  present,  there  were  to  be  anything 
culpable  done,  no  such  neat  policy  could  be  adopted, 
the  younger  sister  had  reasoned  with  herself,  as  that 
of  a  mutual  masquerade.  If  Letitia  chose  to  approve 
the  whole  odd  business  and  lend  a  hand  to  its  further- 
ing, let  her  take  the  cue  offered.  And  so  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite, with  the  skill  of  one  adroit  in  all  such  tactics, 
offered  the  cue. 

"It  would  be  perfectly  fearful,  would  it  not,"  she 
now  went  on,  "  if  he  should  conclude  to  get  well  after 
such  a  marriage  ?  I  suppose  he  has  a  kind  of  hope 
that  he  will ;  and  loving  Olivia,  as  he  undoubtedly 
does,  he  wants  to  ...  to  ...  (dear  me,  Letitia  ! 
how  shall  I  express  it?)  to  give  himself  the  .  .  . 
benefit  of  ..." 

"  I  see,"  Mrs.  Auchincloss  here  interrupted  the 
speaker,  in  the  midst  of  this  intentional  stumbling. 
"  You  spoke  a  minute  ago,  sister,  of  his  concluding  to 
get  well.  People  do  not  usually  accomplish  such  ends 


180  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

as  that  by  their  own  volition.  .  .  .  And  you  say  that 
the  doctors  give  him  up  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Still,  he  may  live?" 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  by  any  means  be  a  miracle  if  he 
did." 

"I  see,"  again  murmured  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  floor ;  "  I  see." 

Her  sister  felt  that  she  saw  —  and  very  lucidly,  by 
this  time.  It  looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  slip  into 
the  little  plot  that  should  raise,  if  it  were  successful, 
her  niece  out  of  pauperism  and  dependence.  Her 
next  words,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  knew,  would  decide 
what  part  she  would  take  —  whether  one  of  non-com- 
pliance or  of  cooperation.  And  her  next  words  did  so 
decide,  as  they  fell  with  lingering  delay  from  her  lips 
—  those  lips  that  could  press  together  their  pink  rims 
with  such  untold  prudishness  when  occasion  made  it 
seem  desirable. 

"  My  dear  Augusta,  I  think  that  if  Mr.  Delaplaine 
chooses  to  believe  there  is  a  hope  for  him,  in  spite  of 
all  that  the  doctors  have  said,  it  is  quite  his  affair  and 
not  ours.  Naturally  the  intelligence  of  any  one  so  ill 
as  he  is  must  be  weakened.  I  should  advise  that  we 
grant  .  .  .  his  little  .  .  .  stipulation,  or  ...  er  ... 
request,  regarding  Olivia  being  told  there  is  ...  er  ... 
any  chance  of  his  recovery.  Humor  him  in  this  .  .  . 
why  not?  And  as  for  Olivia  herself,  I  only  hope  that 
she  may  see  the  spiritual  sweetness  in  such  an  act  as 
that  which  he  shall  ask  of  her,  besides  the  more  .  .  . 
er  .  .  .  more  material  aspect  it  will  present." 

Augusta  Satterthwaite  rose  from  her  chair  with  a 
short  nod.  "  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  with  cold  laconism. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  181 

It  was  very  pleasing  to  secure  her  sister  as  a  confed- 
erate in  this  proposed  little  enterprise,  but  she  could 
not  help  a  pang  or  two  of  aggravation  at  Letitia  when 
the  latter  threw  on  her  puritanic,  not  to  say  hypocritic, 
mantle,  and  began  mincing  about  in  it;  for  she  had 
long  ago  assured  herself  that  Letitia  was  never  so  apt 
to  do  this  as  when  she  was  on  bad  terms  with  her  own, 
vaunted  conscience. 

"  The  great  point  is  here,"  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  now 
went  coolly  on,  in  matter-of-fact  tones  that  contrasted 
noticeably  with  her  former  perturbed  and  insecure 
ones;  "Will  Olivia  consent  to  such  a  marriage?  You 
and  I,  Letitia,  have  already  had  rather  full  proof  of 
just  how  obstinate  she  can  be." 

"  Yes  —  indeed,  yes !  " 

"But  the  girl,  I  think,  has  her  fair  share  both  of 
pity  and  gratitude.  These  must  be  appealed  to. 
She  must  see  Delaplaine.  I  shall  make  a  point  of 
that ;  we  both  must.  If  anything  should  be  said 
afterward,  you  know,  we  must  have  it  in  our  power  to 
vindicate  ourselves  thoroughly." 

"  Oh,  thoroughly."  struck  in  Mrs.  Auchincloss.  Both 
sisters  at  length  understood  exactly  how  to  conduct 
themselves  to  one  another;  their  roles  were  to  be 
those  of  the  most  blameless  apparent  innocence.  And 
now  Mrs.  Auchincloss  continued  :  "We  want  to 
stand  hereafter,  if  anything  should  happen,  in  the 
very  clearest  colors  before  that  girl.  For  she  is  hasty- 
tempei-ed  (we've  seen  that)  and  she  would  not  hesitate 
to  bring  an  accusation  of  some  sort  against  us,  embar- 
rassing enough,  however  undeserved." 

The  masquerade,  as  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  now  realized, 
was  being  most  skilfully  conducted  on  the  part  of  her 


182  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

sister.  She,  in  turn,  proceeded  to  enact  her  own  due 
share  of  it. 

"Yes,  Letitia;  we  cannot  be  too  mindful  of  how 
delicate  a  position  we  will  occupy.  If  Olivia  should 
consent  to  this  marriage,  and  if  he  should  get  better 
after  it,  the  girl  will  of  course  pour  blame  on  us  for 
not  having  distressed  poor  Delaplaine  by  making  her 
aware  of  one  little  remote  probability  that  he  might 
get  well." 

"And  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  with  a 
dainty  upward  gesture  of  the  black-gloved  hands, 
"at  least  there,  Augusta,  we  shall  be  justified  in 
using  actual  deceit.  We  need  not  let  Olivia  know 
that  we  ever  knew  of  that  remote  little  probability 
.  .  .  Still,  her  consent  to  the  marriage  looks  very  un- 
certain, I  should  say."  Here  the  lady  grew  visibly 
excited,  as  she  drew  forth  a  tiny  crystal  vinaigrette 
and  placed  it  at  either  thin  pink  nostril.  "Oh,  no, 
no,"  she  proceeded,  with  sidelong  dips  of  the  head 
toward  her  restorative  salts  till  the  sprays  of  jet  on  her 
black  mourning  bonnet  sensitively  tinkled,  "  I'm  sure 
she'll  never  do  it.  Don't  depend  on  her,  Augusta. 
She  would  simply  fly  from  the  house  in  amazement  if 
we  made  her  any  such  proposition.  And  I  doubt  if 
she  will  even  come  here,  unless  you  ask  her  in  the 
most  cautious  way." 

"I've  done  that.  I  did  not  mention  in  my  note 
that  Delaplaine  desired  to  do  anything  except  alter 
his  will  in  her  favor.  Oh,  she  will  come ;  it  would 
be  despicable  in  her  if  she  remained  away  at  the  hour 
I  appointed  —  two  o'clock  this  afternoon.  She  cer- 
tainly could  not  refuse  to  stand  at  the  bedside  of  a 
dying  man  —  and  that  man  so  old  and  prized  a  friend 
of  her  father." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  183 

"  No  ...  as  you  have  put  your  request  she  will  of 
course  accede  to  it.  But  this  change  in  the  will  .  .  . 
has  it  been  made  already  ?  " 

"I  think  so.  His  lawyer  was  with  him  for  some 
time  this  morning  —  and  against  his  two  doctors'  posi- 
tive orders." 

"The  will  is  no  doubt  altered,  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Auchincloss.  She  was  inwardly  very  much  exercised 
about  the  whole  affair.  Had  she  been  too  reckless  in 
her  late  tacit  little  compact?  Ought  she  not  to  have 
waited  and  discussed  the  advisability  of  it  with  her 
reverenced  Archibald?  And  yet  could  she  do  more 
than  fancy  that  this  oracle  of  tranquil  wisdom  would 
fail  to  commend  the  course  she  had  taken?  Such  a 
marriage  as  this  one  for  Olivia  might  savor  of  sensa- 
tionalism and  of  theatric  coarseness.  But  then,  how 
ameliorating  it  might  prove  to  the  girl's  future ! 

Singular  enough  was  the  diversity  between  these 
two  sisters  when  their  congeniality  was  also  fairly 
regarded.  Both  were  astute,  both  lacking  in  that 
guidance  of  disinterested  principle  which  makes  the 
honor  and  creditable  hope  of  all  human  progression. 
Both  were  selfish  women,  enswathed  in  supercilious- 
ness, degraded  by  ambitions  of  shallow  and  idle  reach. 
And  yet  a  gulf  separated  them,  since  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs's  paltry  ideal  of  conduct  was  to  worship  some 
perfectly  meretricious  god  that  she  named  good-taste, 
and  the  morale  of  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  was  to  worship 
an  ideal,  just  as  paltry,  of  temporal  eminence,  and 
glittering  though  tawdry  power.  Neither  woman 
had  the  least  vital  valuation  of  abstract  right;  neither 
would  have  scrupled  to  sell  her  finer  self-respect  for 
that  mess  of  pottage  which  the  unsoiled  spirit  defines 


184  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

by  mere  external  and  circumstantiaf  acquirement. 
But  the  elder  sister  wanted  her  mess  of  pottage  in 
a  silver  dish,  with  a  cover  that  hid  from  all  prying 
glances  the  homely  quality  of  the  viand  ;  while  the 
younger  sister,  willing  enough  that  it  should  be  set 
before  her  in  earthenware,  clung  to  the  desire  of  hav- 
ing it  brought  by  a  livened  domestic  and  in  a  frescoed 
dining-hall.  They  were  both  snobs  to  their  finger-tips, 
but  one  was  the  scandal-fearing  and  one  the  scandal- 
daring  snob.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  dreaded  to  risk  a 
speck  of  odium  upon  her  scarf-skin  of  respectability ; 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  jauntily  snapped  her  fingers  at  the 
infliction  of  any  such  petty  soilure,  so  long  as  she 
maintained  the  gracious  prerogative  of  going  every- 
where, knowing  everybody,  and  of  putting  every- 
where that  she  went  and  everybody  whom  she  knew 
in  the  rose-tinted  light  of  concession  rather  than  of 
recipiency.  All  things  considered,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite 
undeniably  had  the  best  hand  in  the  cheap,  trifling, 
fleeting  game.  To  place  the  parallel  much  lower,  it 
is  the  reprobate  with  a  vestige  or  two  of  decency  who 
picks  a  pocket  under  conditions  of  smaller  individual 
gusto. 

At  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  Olivia  punctually  ap- 
peared. She  disliked  coming  with  as  much  strength 
as  that  by  which  she  had  felt  herself  urged  to  come. 

There  had  been  no  evading  the  necessity  of  present- 
ing herself  at  Delaplaine's  side;  she  would  have 
despised  her  own  shadow  for  months  afterwards  if 
she  had  refused  so  simple  a  boon.  But  the  bequest  of 
his  fortune  to  her  on  the  part  of  her  father's  old  friend 
—  that  had  placed  her  in  a  kind  of  dizzying  dilemma. 
Her  pride  revolted  at  once ;  for  was  it  not  a  deed  of 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  185 

charity  which  she  would  have  refused  without  hesita- 
tion if  the  donor's  hand  had  been  a  living  and  not  a 
dying  one?  But  self-rebuke  struck  an  immediate 
blow  at  such  pride,  and  bade  her  hold  at  its  rightful 
worth  the  kindliness,  beneficence  and  devotion  of  so 
magnificent  a  legacy.  Perhaps  the  enthusiastic  gratu- 
lations  of  Mrs.  Ottarson  had  not  a  little  to  do  with 
the  final  calming  of  her  bewildered  mind,  which  had 
almost  lost  the  power  to  think  coherently  amid  the 
rush  of  unaccustomed  thoughts  that  besieged  its  facul- 
ties. 

"  'Livia !  "  quivered  her  aunt,  in  a  voice  between 
laughing  and  weeping,  "I  'clare  t'  goodness  it  jus' 
can't  be  true  !  It  can't  be,  an'  'tairtt!  I'm  dream  in' ; 
I've  got  one  o'  those  spells  o'  dreamin'  I  sometimes 
get  from  layin'  flat  on  my  back  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  I  ain't, 
though  !  It's  all  true  's  it  can  be  !  " 

And  here  the  benignant  if  unsyntactical  being 
caught  Olivia  to  her  breast  and  kissed  her.  "Of 
course  it's  awful  to  think  of  him  dyin'  so  sudden  ; 
but  then,  as  your  Aunt  Satterthwaite  says  in  her 
letter  (an'  the  Lord  knows  she's  'cute  'nough  'bout 
all  such  things  !  )  it's  an  ill-wind,  deary  ...  or  some- 
thing kind  o'  like  that.  'T  seems  a  reg'lar  sin  to 
laugh,  don't  it  ?  An'  't  seems  a  sin  to  cry  's  well, 
seem'  't  I  cry  on'y  from  joy,  jus'  's  I  laugh  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  sakes!  To  think  o'  you  havin'  w'at  you  was  born 
and  brought  up  to,  after  all !  .  .  ." 

Generalities  now  gave  place  to  particulars,  and  in  a 
trice  Mrs.  Ottarson  was  viewing  the  whole  recent 
event  with  practical  vision.  "I  s'pose 't  won't  be 
very  pleasant  to  go  all  alone.  I  wish  I  could  be 
there  too,  an'  kind  o'  stay  somewheres  round  so  's 


186  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINK 

you  knew  I  was  near  while  he  kep'  you  talkin'  in  the 
sick-room.  You've  just  come  from  so  much  sufferin', 
Liv,  it  don't  seem  right  you  should  see  any  more,  f'r 
ever  so  long ;  does  it !  Wat  you  goin'  to  wear  ?  I'd 
put  on,  'f  I  was  you,  the  black  dress  with  the  ruffles 
up  the  sleeves;  it  suits  you  to  a  jiffy  .  .  .  an'  then, 
you  know,  if  the  room's  warm  you  can  slip  your 
sacque  off,  an'  even  if  the  old  gent'man  is  goin'  fast 
't  won't  make  him  go  any  quicker  'f  he  sees  you 
lookin'  's  pretty  's  possible." 

Olivia  wore  the  dress  with  the  ruffled  sleeves,  but, 
as  it  turned  out,  she  slipped  off  her  sacque,  with  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite's  assistance,  very  soon  after  she  had  en- 
tered the  house.  She  felt  excited,  and  knew  that  her 
cheeks  were  glowing  hotter  as  her  aunt  kissed  her; 
but  she  did  not  know  how  sparklingly  blue  her  eyes 
had  become.  She  was  not  even  aware  that  she  had 
shaped  the  question  "  How  is  Mr.  Delaplaine  ?  "  until 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  answered  it  by  saying : 

"  He's  easier  now,  and  ready  to  speak  with  you." 

Then  Olivia  looked  full  into  her  aunt's  eyes.  "It's 
a  great  kindness  on  his  part,  Aunt  Augusta,"  she  said 
a  little  brokenly.  "I  —  I  hardly  know  how  I  ought 
to  receive  it — or  whether  I  —  I  ought  to  receive  it  at 
all." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  put  her  hand  on  Olivia's  shoul- 
der. "  Receive  it  all,  Olivia ! "  she  softly  exclaimed. 

Just  then  a  young  man  entered  the  room.  It  was 
Adrian,  of  whom  we  have  heard  mention  before. 
During  four  or  five  years  he  had  held  a  subordinate 
position  in  Delaplaine's  household,  not  exactly  ex- 
plainable as  to  the  question  of  its  being  secretaryship 
or  servantship.  His  full  name  was  Adrian  Etherege. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  187 

He  sometimes  would  spend  an  hour  or  two  with  Dela- 
plaine  at  the  bank.  He  lived  here  in  the  West  Tenth 
Street  house,  and  had  a  room  beyond  any  of  the  ser- 
vants' rooms  in  appointment  and  preference  of  loca- 
tion. He  could  not  have  been  more  than  twenty  years 
old ;  perhaps  he  was  still  younger,  though  there  was  a 
certain  mature  look  about  his  large,  velvety  brown 
eyes.  They  were  feminine  eyes,  and  his  extremely 
slender  and  graceful  figure,  just  tall  enough  to  surpass 
that  6f  most  women,  made  an  imaginative  observer 
regret  the  unpicturesque  limitations  of  our  modern 
male  costume;  for  Adrian  Etherege,  this  boyish  young 
beauty,  with  his  smooth,  oval  face  just  touched  about 
its  upper  lip  by  the  downy  growth  of  a  blond  mous- 
tache, and  with  the  clustering  mass  of  yellow  curls 
lying  negligent  and  too  profuse  above  a  broad,  sculpt- 
urally white  forehead,  would  have  acquitted  himself  so 
admirably  as  a  page  of  earlier  romantic  times !  What 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  perhaps  a  little 
older  than  twenty  years,  was  a  pensive  expression 
that  instantly  revealed  itself  when  you  squarely  con- 
fronted the  lovely  delicacy  of  his  countenance. 

Olivia  was  at  once  won  by  him  as  he  paused  before 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  It  swiftly  struck  her  that  he  was 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  youths  whom  she  had  ever 
seen.  His  dress,  quite  out  of  the  prevailing  fashion 
and  yet  as  modestly  inconspicuous  as  any  garb  of 
to-day  could  well  be  cut  or  worn,  heightened  the 
sweet,  adolescent  charm  of  his  bearing.  It  darted 
through  Olivia's  mind,  in  spite  of  her  anxiety  and 
perplexity,  "What  a  wonderfully  winning  and  fasci- 
nating presence  he  has!"  But  he  roused  in  her  only 
the  delight  we  bestow  upon  some  thrifty  and  splendid 


188  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

plant,  with  its  knots  of  bloom  lifted  clear  and  perfect 
to  the  view.  He  caused  her  almost  to  forget  the  mel- 
ancholy mission  on  which  she  had  entered  this  abode 
of  her  dead  father's  friend,  while  she  heard  him 
address  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  in  these  few,  low-toned 
words : 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine  wishes  to  know  if  the  young  lady 
is  here  yet." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  She  turned 
away  from  the  speaker  and  put  a  hand  on  either  of 
Olivia's  arms,  while  she  scanned  the  girl's  flushed  face. 
"  You  are  ready  to  go  up  and  see  Mr.  Delaplaine  now, 
are  you  not?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Olivia.  Her  gaze  wandered  to  the 
young  man  while  she  thus  replied.  It  seemed  as  if 
she  made  her  reply  to  him  rather  than  to  her  aunt. 
A  moment  afterward,  having  transiently  fixed  his 
superb  brown  eyes  upon  Olivia's  face,  he  passed  from 
the  room. 

"  Who  is  he  ? "  quickly  whispered  Olivia,  her  look 
following  him  as  he  receded. 

"His  name  is  Etherege  —  Adrian  Etherege,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

"Adrian  Etherege,"  Olivia  repeated.  "How  hand- 
some he  is!  What  a  charming  face  he  has!  It  makes 
me  think  of  faces  in  pictures  that  I  saw  somewhere 
abroad  ...  in  Dresden,  Venice,  Florence,  some- 
where among  the  galleries  I  used  now  and  then  to 
visit  with  poor  papa." 

"Isn't  he  just  too  enchanting,"  cried  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite. "  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  some  one  say  he  is,  for 
I've  thought  so  a  perfect  age  .  .  .  I've  only  seen  him 
once  or  twice  before,"  she  went  on  self-correctively. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  189 

"Mr.  Delaplaine  has  now  and  then  sent  him  with  a 
message  to  me  since  .  .  .  since  he  engaged  him  about 
three  or  four  years  ago.  He  lives  here,  you  know  — 
he's  a  sort  of  servant." 

"A  servant  —  he?"  murmured  Olivia. 

"  Yes.  A  sort  of  servant.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it,  would  you  ?  Neither  would  I  at  first.  But 
he's  educated  ;  he's  not  a  real  servant." 

"  I  should  suppose  not." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  laughed.  "You've  fallen  in 
love  with  Adrian.  So  have  I.  He's  adorable.  And 
yet  Mr.  Delaplaine  thinks  him  dull  and  rather  stupid. 
But  men  don't  see  with  our  eyes,  do  they?  I'm  so 
glad  you're  eprise  with  Adrian,  poor  little  fellow  .  .  . 
But  we  mustn't  talk  of  him.  We  must  talk  of  doing 
what  he  told  us  to  do." 

"Going  up  to  ...  to  see  Mr.  Delaplaine,"  fal- 
tered Olivia. 

"Yes.     You're  not  afraid  to  go,  are  you?" 

Olivia  drew  backward  a  few  steps.  "Afraid?"  she 
repeated.  "No.  But  this  great  act  of  kindness  he 
wants  me  to  benefit  by.  .  .  .  That  makes  me  almost 
afraid." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  was  looking  steadily  into  her 
eyes.  "  You  know,  Olivia,  that  he  was  in  love  with 
you  before  he  was  taken  ill.  You  know  that.  He 
told  you  so." 

"Yes  ...  he  told  me  that  he  wanted  me  to  marry 
him." 

"  He  told  you  that  he  was  in  love  with  you,"  per- 
sisted her  aunt.  "Yes,  he  did,  Olivia.  And  we  — 
your  Aunt  Augusta  and  I  —  assured  you  of  it  after- 
ward.'* 


190  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE, 

"  Well  .  .  .  yes,"  replied  Olivia. 

"Now,  my  dear  girl,"  suddenly  broke  forth  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  "he  wants  you  to  accept  this  great 
favor  at  his  hands." 

"I  know.     You  wrote  me." 

" But  I  did  not  write  you  all" 

"Not  all?" 

"No.  He  has  changed  his  will.  The  lawyer  was 
here  this  morning.  But  there  .  .  .  well,  there  is 
something  else." 

"  Something  else  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Don't  look  so  startled.  How  can  I  tell  you 
if  you  look  so  startled  ?  .  .  .  He  is  dying  you  know." 

"  I  do  know.     You  wrote  me  that." 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  there  was  something  I  did  not 
write  you." 

"No?"  said  Olivia,  with  a  child's  innocence  of  sur- 
prise. "  What  was  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  shrugged  her  square,  firm  shoul- 
ders (so  different  from  the  drooping,  fragile  shoulders 
of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Auchincloss)  and  half  turned  away. 
"You  shall  soon  know,  my  dear.  He  will  tell  you. 
It's  .  .  .  it's  something  he  will  want  you  to  do." 
Suddenly  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  veered  about  and  caught 
both  Olivia's  hands  in  both  her  own.  "  I  won't  tell 
you,  my  dear.  It's  a  dying  request  of  his.  Remem- 
ber that." 

"A  dying  request?"  Olivia  said,  in  a  dazed  way. 
She  felt  as  if  some  weird  trap  were  about  to  be  sprung 
upon  her.  She  had  always  distrusted  these  two  aris- 
tocratic aunts  of  hers.  Now  one  of  them  seemed  to 
her  brimming  with  guile  and  stratagem.  She  silently 
regretted  that  she  had  not  allowed  the  staunch  and 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  191 

incorruptible  Mrs.  Ottarson  to  accompany  her  hither, 
as  that  doughty  lady  had  proposed,  if  not  insisted. 

"  A  dying  request  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

But  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  went  up  to  the  girl  and  put 
one  of  her  arms  within  her  own,  drawing  her  reso- 
lutely and  determinedly  toward  the  door.  "  Now, 
don't  be  frightened,"  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  admonished. 
"  You've  nothing  on  earth  to  be  frightened  about  .  .  . 

O  .  O 

Come  .  .  .  What  he  asks  of  you,  my  dear,  you  can 
refuse  or  accept,  just  as  you  choose." 

Olivia  allowed  herself  to  be  led.  The  staircase  in 
the  outer  hall  was  broad  enough  for  them  to  ascend  it 
two  abreast.  When  they  had  readied  the  second  hall 
and  paused  before  a  closed  door,  the  first  that  they 
met,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  said: 

"Now  go  in.  You'll  find  him  very  gentle  and 
sweet.  And,  recollect — he's  dying." 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  opened  the 
door  before  which  they  both  stood.  She  pushed  Olivia 
into  the  chamber.  Then  she  closed  the  door,  leaving 
her  niece  alone  with  the  sick  man  who  was  himself 
alone  amid  an  artificial  gloom,  waiting  for  her,  having 
dismissed  every  attendant.  Whatever  was  the  com- 
munication which  he  desired  to  impart,  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  it  should  be  for  one  pair  of  ears 
only. 

Olivia,  seeing  the  bed  and  the  dim  face  outlined 
against  its  pillows,  drew  quietly  forward. 

" Olivia,"  called  a  faint  voice.     " Is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Delaplaine." 

"  Come,  nearer." 

She  went  nearer.     He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and 


192  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

she  took  it,  standing  at  his  bedside.  She  looked 
down  at  his  face.  It  seemed  wan  and  drawn  and 
changed  to  her. 

"  Olivia,"  said  the  sick  man,  "  you  have  come  to  me 
like  the  dear,  good  girl  that  you  are.  .  .  .  They  say  I 
can't  last  very  many  hours  longer." 

"  I  hope  it  isn't  true,  Mr.  Delaplaine." 

"I  know  you  hope  that,  Olivia.  But  if  I  really 
must  go,  I've  arranged  that  you  shall  have  all  I  leave 
behind  me.  I've  arranged  it.  Did  they  tell  you?" 

"They  said  you  had  done  me  this  goodness,"  she 
answered.  "But"  .  .  .  And  then  she  paused,  while 
the  hand  that  he  clasped  trembled  and  he  felt  it 
tremble  .  .  .  "are  there  no  others,  Mr.  Delaplaine, 
whom  .  .  .  ?" 

"No  others  —  no,"  he  interrupted  her,  with  a  fev- 
erish, peevish  ring  in  his  husky  voice.  "But  there 
are  others  —  relations  of  mine  whom  I  don't  care  for 
—  whom  I've  helped  now  and  then,  but  not  even  seen 
since  I  was  a  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  and  these 
might  dispute  my  will."  He  paused,  and  gasped  a 
little  for  breath,  with  a  rattling  in  his  throat  that 
made  Olivia's  heart  throb  for  pity.  "Now,  Olivia," 
he  presently  resumed,  speaking  with  difficulty,  "I 
want  to  make  your  claim  sure.  Sure,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  Yes  ...  I  understand." 

She  felt  his  fingers  grow  tenser  about  the  hand  that 
still  lay  within  his  own.  "  No,  you  don't  understand. 
There's  only  one  sure  way  of  making  all  their  future 
litigation  useless.  Only  one  sure  way." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  a  long,  stertorous 
breath,  still  clasping  her  hand. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  193 

She  watched  him.  She  did  not  know  just  what  to 
answer,  except  to  ask  him  concerning  the  avoidant 
way  to  which  he  had  alluded.  So,  presently,  she  said : 

"What 'is  that  way,  Mr.  Delaplaine?" 

He   unclosed   his   eyes   and   fixed   them   upon   her 

attentive  face.     "By  marrying  you  here,  inside  the 

next  hour.     You'll  only  be  my  wife  for  a  little  while 

.  .  .  I'll  die  soon  afterward.     I'll  —  there,  don't  try 

to  drag  your  hand  away  like  that.     Listen ! " 

She  let  her  hand  stay  in  the  clasp  of  his.  But  if 
the  room  had  not  been  so  dusky  he  could  have  seen 
what  a  pallor  had  overswept  her  face. 

"I  —  I  will  listen,"  she  managed  to  answer:  "but  I 
—  I  can't  do  what  you  ask." 

He  raised  himself  in  bed,  taking  her  hand,  now,  in 
both  his  own.  A  new  effect  of  light  showed  her  how 
haggard  he  was.  "Olivia,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  "do 
this  for  me !  No  —  not  for  me  —  for  yourself !  It 
isn't  only  that  I  love  you  —  it's  far  more  —  it's  that 
they'll  try  to  take  the  money  away  from  you  if  you 
won't  consent!  Don't  be  foolish,  Olivia.  You'll 
be  my  wife  only  for  —  for  a  few  hours.  But  .  .  ." 

"  No !  no  !  no !  "  she  cried,  dragging  her  hand  away 
from  both  his  clinging  hands.  She  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, watching  him  as  he  sank  back  upon  the  pillows. 
"No!  no!  no!"  she  repeated.  And  then,  with  her 
heart  beating  so  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  it  would 
.  leap  out  of  her  breast,  she  hurried  toward  the  door  of 
the  dim  chamber,  opened  it,  and  fled  into  the  hall 
beyond. 


194  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XI. 

THE  day  on  which  Olivia  made  that  unsuspicious 
little  pilgrimage  to  Delaplaine's  abode  proved  the  first 
by  which  the  reigning  May  had  asserted  her  somewhat 
slender  right  even  to  be  called  vernal.  A  sharpness 
yet  lingered  in  the  breeze,  but  it  was  at  least  southerly 
—  strong  concession  from  so  bad-tempered  a  month  as 
this  had  shown  itself  —  and  you  could  easily  imagine 
over  what  radiant  wavelets  it  swept  while  it  passed 
northward  through  the  narrows  into  New  York  Bay. 
Fifth  Avenue  looked  cheerful  enough  almost  to  de- 
serve the  name  of  a  handsome  thoroughfare,  since  its 
miles  of  deplorable  brown-stone  spruceness  are  never 
so  far  from  being  a  shock  to  artistic  nerves  as  when 
they  cumbrously  scowl  at  us  through  a  merry  golden 
veil  of  sunshine. 

The  Satterthwaites'  house  was  of  that  usual  sulky 
sobriety  in  the  way  of  design  which  its  locality  loves 
to  perpetuate  for  ill-starred  future  generations,  and 
which,  if  the  best  speech  of  architecture  may  be  called 
eloquence,  might  well  deserve  the  name  of  platitude. 
But  this  large  family-mansion,  with  its  two  windows 
on  one  side  of  the  high  stoop  and  one  window  on  the 
other,  was  of  brick,  with  stone  copings,  and  had  been 
decoratively  and  improvingly  touched  by  a  clever 
architect  after  the  Satterthwaites  purchased  it.  Being 
on  a  corner,  it  ran  a  good  distance  down  along  the 
transverse  street,  and  showed  glimpses  of  lace  and 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  195 

silken  tapestries,  of  statuary  and  of  other  costly  orna- 
mentation within,  from  its  two  large  embayed  windows 
and  its  many  other  smaller  ones. 

To  a  young  man,  of  calm,  dark,  serene  face  and 
rather  foreign  air,  who  had  just  ascended  the  stoop 
and  pulled  the  bronze  door-bell,  it  seemed  a  strikingly 
brilliant  sort  of  residence.  Though  an  American  by 
birth,  he  had  not  been  in  this  country  for  over  ten 
years,  and  many  changes  were  now  evident  to  him  in 
the  great  city  which  he  had  last  observed  as  a  boy  of 
sixteen  or  thereabout.  The  footman  who  presently 
admitted  him  into  a  marbled  and  richly  upholstered 
hall,  was  like  a  living  memento  of  Parisian  sojourns ; 
the  new-comer  had  seen  in  Paris  just  such  clean-shorn, 
intelligent,  quick-moving  fellows,  among  the  salons, 
the  best  cafes.  About  ten  minutes  afterwards,  while 
he  sat  with  Emmeline  and  Elaine  Satterthwaite  in  the 
grand  gilded  drawing-rooms,  he  expressed  a  similar 
opinion  regarding  New  York  itself. 

"  It  all  has  grown  to  wear  a  more  foreign  look,"  he 
said,  in  his  even,  composed,  unassertive  voice,  which 
somehow  always  carried  the  latent  suggestion  of  his 
being  ready  to  weigh  most  carefully  and  respectfully 
any  opposite  opinion  that  you,  on  your  part,  might 
care  to  advance  against  his  own.  "  At  least  all  that  I 
have  yet  seen  of  the  huge  town." 

"We  don't  see  much  change,"  replied  Emmeline, 
looking  at  her  sister  for  a  moment ;  "  do  we,  Elly  ?  I 
suppose  that  is  because  we  hardly  ever  give  it  a 
thought ;  we've  become  so  used  to  it,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  Elaine  struck  in,  at  this  point,  "you  must 
remember,  Jasper,  that  it  will  very  soon  be  four  years 
since  we  all  met  you  in  London."  Here  the  younger 


196  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

sister  cast  down  her  eyes  and  sighed.  She  had  been 
told  that  the  broad,  creamy-white  effect  of  her  drooped 
eyelids  at  such  times  became  her  quite  effectively. 
"  How  often  Em  and  I  have  thought  about  the  lovely 
way  in  which  you  treated  us !  " 

"I?"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  surprisedly  looking 
at  her  with  his  dark,  sweet,  serious  eyes.  And  then 
came  his  throaty,  mellow,  English-sounding  laugh.  "I 
have  no  idea,  Elaine,  really,  in  what  my  loveliness 
consisted." 

"  Oh,  Elly  means  that  you  devoted  yourself  to  us  in 
a  more  than  cousinly  manner  during  those  pleasant  Lon- 
don days  of  latter  May  and  early  June! "  answered  Em- 
meline.  "  You  took  us  every  where  —  to  the  National 
Gallery,  the  Kensington  Museum,  the  British  Museum, 
the  Grosvenor  Gallery,  the  Tower,  the  '  Zoo,'  Madame 
Tussaud's,  Richmond,  Greenwich,  Windsor  .  .  .  where 
Jasper,  did  you  not  take  us?" 

"And  now,  "  hurried  Elaine,  as  if  she  were  deter- 
mined not  to  be  out-done  in  the  grace  of  gratitude  by 
her  elder  sister,  "you've  come  to  New  York  at  so  dull 
a  season  that  we  have  no  means  of  repaying  you  for 
all  that  past  kindness.  There's  never  anything  going 
on  now  in  New  York ;  and  besides,  as  you  see,  we're 
in  mourning." 

"  In  mourning  ? "  repeated  their  guest,  with  that 
nice,  prompt  sympathy  of  tone  which  was  all  the 
more  welcome  because  it  partook  of  his  intrinsic 
spontaneity  and  naturalness.  He  never  appeared  to 
be  other  than  he  really  was ;  his  perfect  breeding  be- 
spoke some  chivalrous  origin  to  which  the  everyday 
skin-deep  civilities  bore  little  true  resemblance;  no 
kindly  words  ever  escaped  him  without  making  his 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE.  197 

listener  somehow  feel  that  they  would  not  have  been 
uttered  at  all  if  they  had  had  to  be  delivered  hypo- 
critically. 

"  Our  uncle,  Mr.  Houston  Van  Rensselaer,  died  a 
few  days  ago,"  said  Emmeline.  "We  never  knew 
him  well,  but  then  of  course  it  can't  be  forgotten 
that  he  was  mamma's  own  brother." 

"You  remember  Uncle  Houston,  don't  you,  Jas- 
per?" said  Elaine.  "He  crossed  over  to  London 
from  Paris,  that  spring,  with  his  daughter." 

"One  very  warm  Sunday  we  all  went  together  to 
Hampton  Court,"  said  Emmeline.  "  Don't  you  re- 
member now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  indeed  ! "  suddenly  declared  the  young 
man,  as  though  memory  had  not  until  that  instant 
obeyed  his  call.  "And  Mr.  Van  Rensselaer  had  such 
a  sweet  little  daughter,  with  big  blue  eyes.  Pray, 
what  has  become  of  her?" 

"  She  is  here,"  answered  Emmeline,  stealing  a  fleet 
look  at  Elaine. 

"Ah?  You  mean  that  she  is  stopping  here  with 
you  in  this  house  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  no  —  Em  only  means  that  she's  here  in  New 
York,"  hastened  Elaine,  "  She's  .  .  .  staying  with 
...  er  ...  some  other  relations  of  hers." 

"Indeed?"  said  their  guest.  "I  shall  get  you  to 
give  me  her  address,  if  you  will  be  so  good.  I  should 
like  to  see  her  again.  She  promised  to  become  a  most 
delightful  creature ;  I  shouldn't  like  to  miss  my  oppor- 
tunity of  finding  out  whether  the  bud  belied  the  rose. 
But  of  course  I  don't  mean  that  I  should  think  of  pay- 
ing her  a  visit  for  a  long  time  yet." 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  his  two  hearers  re- 


198  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

gavded  with  more  profound  disgust  the  idea  of  his 
going  to  see  Olivia  Van  Rensselaer  at  all  in  her 
present  highly  plebeian  abode.  He  was  their  cousin, 
though  several  times  removed,  and  if  he  had  not  been 
Jasper  Massereene  —  or  some  one  of  equal  notability 
—  they  would  perhaps  have  shown  a  very  limited  con- 
cern for  the  relationship.  As  it  was,  they  held  his 
visit  to  be  impressively  complimentary.  Even  in 
London  he  had  not  shone  to  them  in  the  colors  of 
a  compatriot,  but  in  those  of  an  Englishman  whose 
American  birth  was  but  dimly  recollected,  as  if  it  had 
been  some  sort  of  early  juvenile  escapade. 

He  had  left  Cambridge  with  high  honors ;  he  was 
handsome,  singularly  amiable,  and  endowed  with  an 
address  of  the  most  gentleman-like  fascination. 
"Mamma  and  papa  "had  been  so  proud  and  glad 
to  meet  him,  and  then  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he 
had  friends  everywhere  in  the  best  London  circles. 
Mr.  Bleecker  Satterthwaite's  first  cousin  had  been  his 
mother ;  she  had  married  his  father,  Trevor  Masser- 
eene, in  New  York,  and  it  had  been  regarded  as  a 
very  advantageous  match.  The  young  lady  was  a 
beauty,  and  a  belle  in  society.  Trevor  Massereene 
was  a  near  relative  of  the  Earl  of  Meath,  and  had 
come  to  New  York,  years  ago,  to  enter  a  banking- 
house  of  greater  importance  than  that  of  Delaplaine 
&  Van  Rensselaer.  He  had  acquired  a  fortune  and 
afterward  married  one,  the  Satterthwaite  estate  being 
divided  between  Bleecker  and  his  cousin,  with  a  su- 
perb share  for  each.  When  his  father  had  become  a 
widower  he  had  retired  from  Wall  Street  and  taken 
his  only  child,  Jasper,  to  live  with  him  in  England. 
The  Earl  of  Meath  had  cordially  received  his  kinsman, 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  199 

and  at  his  father's  death  young  Jasper,  with  a  really 
great  inheritance,  had  found  himself  by  no  means 
neglected  or  ignored. 

He  had  come  to  America,  after  his  long  residence 
in  England,  with  uncertain  views  as  to  how  long  he 
should  remain  here.  He  had  passionately  loved  his 
mother,  and  she  had  died  in  New  York.  This  formed 
a  certain  reason,  rooted  in  sentiment,  why  he  should 
wish  to  see  once  more  the  city  of  her  birth  and  death. 
But  there  were  other  reasons  for  his  corning.  He 
had  been  a  sincere  student  of  many  questions  which 
he  believed  that  this  transatlantic  trip  could,  perhaps, 
render  more  clear  to  him.  He  was  a  young  man  who 
could  intellectually  repress  himself  with  so  ready  an 
adaptability  that  he  possessed  scores  of  acquaintances 
quite  unconscious  of  any  striking  trait  in  him  apart 
from  that  of  his  being  a  good  fellow  of  the  most  con- 
vivial proficiences.  But  he  never  with  intention  shut 
to  one  acquaintance  particular  doors  or  windows  of 
his  individuality,  and  opened  them  to  others.  This 
process,  which  went  on  with  him  as  often  as  he  bade 
farewell  to  Tom,  spoke  a  greeting  word  to  Dick,  or 
shook  hands  with  Harry,  was  no  less  undeliberate 
than  it  was  authentic.  He  had,  in  marked  degree, 
the  social  gift,  the  rapid  insight  that  measures  and 
gauges  character,  the  power  to  enjoy  various  phases 
of  human  society  for  what  they  were,  apart  from  what 
they  had  failed  in  becoming.  He  was  a  student  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  a  philosopher  who  not  seldom  gazed 
upon  the  world  with  eyes  of  melancholy  astonishment. 
But  only  those  who  knew  him  best  ever  perceived  in 
him  this  occult  spiritual  distress,  and  even  they  found 
it  to  be  transitory  as  a  piece  of  gloomy  emotion ;  for 


200  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Massereene  did  not  have  it  in  him  to  repine ;  his  was 
that  order  of  optimism  which  sees  a  line  of  light  at 
the  verge  of  the  stormiest  horizon,  and  deafens  itself 
to  all  the  grumbles  of  thunder  that  may  lurk  below. 
You  could  never  have  persuaded  him  that  life  was 
not  worth  living,  though  he  fairly  and  unflinchingly 
faced  every  modern  reason  which  the  scientific  pessi- 
mists presented  for  its  being  altogether  vain  and  fu- 
tile. He  could  not  with  justice  have  been  called 
other  than  agnostic,  and  yet  that  kind  of  grisly  men- 
tal twilight  which  the  consistent  agnostic  usually 
prides  himself  upon  preserving,  was  lighted,  in  the 
case  of  Massereene,  as  one  might  easily  imagine,  by 
more  than  a  single  lonely  trembling  star. 

So  long  as  it  was  a  question  of  seeking  to  explain  the 
universe,  he  tried  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience ;  but 
his  hopes  and  dreams  that  all  was  well,  and  that  hu- 
manity would  hereafter  confront  the  explanation  of  its 
worst  agony  —  these  were  like  white  birds  that  inces- 
santly hovered  about  him,  while  making  with  the 
tender  palpitations  of  their  wings  a  harmony  that 
drowned  many  harsher  noises.  Cheerfulness  always 
flung  its  rose-light  over  his  bearing  and  converse ;  but 
there  was  something  more  than  mere  cheerfulness  in 
this,  the  companionable  and  gregarious  part  of  the 
man's  nature  ;  it  bore  a  closer  resemblance  to  charity, 
expending  and  diffusing  choice  possessions  with  the 
freedom  of  copious  alms.  "  I  don't  believe  you  have 
an  enemy  in  the  world,  Jasper,"  one  of  his  English 
friends  had  said  to  him  once.  And  he  had  replied, 
with  a  little  start  and  a  troubled  frown  on  his  thought- 
ful face:  "I  hope  that  I  don't  deserve  an  enemy.  .I'd 
rather  have  ten  than  feel  that  I  deserved  one." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  201 

He  did  not  specially  admire  either  Emmeline  Satter- 
thwaite  or  her  sister,  Elaine.  They  both  affected  him 
repellingly  by  their  hardness,  just  as  certain  landscapes 
did  in  painting,  ingenious  though  he  might  have  found 
not  a  few  of  their  minor  details.  But  notwithstanding 
that  he  had  brought  here  a  number  of  letters,  the  Sat- 
terthwaite  family  made  a  first  appeal  to  him  through 
the  memory  of  his  dead  mother,  whose  maiden  name 
they  bore.  Emmeline  and  Elaine,  on  the  other  hand, 
considered  him  a  most  adorable  young  gentleman. 
They  had  learned  from  their  father  just  how  many 
thousands  combined  to  form  his  annual  income ;  they 
had  duly  weighed  the  fact  of  his  being  an  earl's  near, 
relative ;  they  had  observed  his  good  looks,  his  manly 
and  tastefully-garbed  shape,  his  polished  manners,  his 
unfailing  geniality.  To  meet  him  again  like  this,  quite 
unexpectedly  in  their  own  drawing-rooms,  produced 
for  them  both  a  mild,  pleasing  shock.  And  then  had 
come  the  exasperating  reflection  that  the  lateness  of 
the  season  and  their  own  mourning-attire  stood  in  the 
way  of  their  having  him  accompany  them  among  fash- 
ionable metropolitan  gayeties.  It  would  have  been 
such  a  grand  coup  to  have  entered  drawing-rooms  at  his 
side  —  to  have  had  it  transpire  that  he  was  their  kins- 
man, and  yet  the  cousin  of  a  distinguished  nobleman 
as  well !  The  Auchinclosses  would  have  felt  it.  It 
was  something  that  would  have  pierced  Madeleine's 
haughty  little  soul  with  envy !  Ah !  did  not  they 
know  ?  If  there  was  anything  on  earth  that  could 
make  Madeleine,  with  her  prodigious  veneration  for 
herself  and  her  parents  and  her  priggish  brother,  bend 
that  slim  neck  of  hers  cringingly,  it  was  proximity  to 
the  British  peerage !  .  .  .  Jasper  Massereene  had  mean- 


202  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

while  no  shadow  of  suspicion  what  thoughts  were 
passing  through  the  minds  of  his  two  young  hostesses 
as  he  said,  in  response  to  a  second  lament  on  Emme- 
line's  part  that  New  York  was  at  present  so  "  dread- 
fully quiet  "  :  "I  didn't  care  much  for  going  to  dances 
and  five  o'clock  teas,  I  assure  you.  One  has  so  many 
of  those  across  the  water.  I  merely  wanted  to  look 
about  rne  and  observe  how  the  town  has  really  altered 
since  I  last  saw  it.  And  then  I  thought  something  of 
going  into  the  West.  Now  there's  Chicago,  for  exam- 
ple. I  want  to  see  that.  I  hear  it  has  become  so 
enormous  and  so  handsome." 

Emmeline  broke  into  a  mocking  laugh,  which  Elaine 
echoed.  "  Oh,  don't  think  of  going  to  Chicago ! " 
exclaimed  the  latter.  "  Nobody  ever  does,  except  on 
business." 

"  Well,"  smiled  Massereene,  "  I  shall  go  on  business. 
I  want  to  make  a  business  of  observation." 

"But  it  won't  interest  you,"  said  Emmeline. 
"There's  nothing  in  the  world  to  see  there.  All 
those  Western  cities  are  so  tiresome.  The  Rocky 
Mountains  are  probably  stupendous,  and  that  sort 
of  thing;  but  our  entire  West  is  fearfully  monotonous 
and  full  of  semi-barbarians.  We  always  pity  people 
who  are  obliged  to  go  out  into  those  half-civilized 
regions.  If  it  were  not  for  the  Englishmen  who  land 

o  *--? 

here  with  a  wild  desire  to  shoot  buffaloes,  we  would 
never  bother  ourselves  that  such  dreary  stretches  of 
country  exist." 

Emmeline  spoke  with  an  arrogance  of  which  she 
was  completely  unconscious.  She  represented  a  class 
of  New  Yorkers  who  hold  our  splendid  American 
interior  in  a  contempt  as  unjust  as  it  is  ridiculous. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  203 

Only  the  foreigner  who  enters  New  York  for  the  first 
time  and  associates  with  the  cliques  and  clans  that 
base  all  their  noteworthiness  upon  a  smart  imitation  of 
habits,  deportment,  verbal  accent,  and  personal  vesture 
practised  reverentially  three  thousand  miles  eastward, 
can  appreciate  how  much  typical  partisanship  this 
young  lady  had  just  exhibited. 

"  I  don't  want  to  shoot  buffaloes,"  said  Massereene ; 
"  but  I  confess  that  I  entertain  respect  of  the  riiost 
substantial  kind  for  anything  that  resembles  a  prairie." 

"  Oh,"  comically  wailed  Elaine,  "  that  is  the  way  all 
you  Englishmen  feel  as  soon  as  you  get  over  here." 

"Please  don't  call  mean  Englishman,"  Massereene 
admonished.  "I'm  a  born  American,  you  know.  I've 
never  forgotten  it ;  I  should  be  sorry  to  do  so,  for  I'm 
proud  of  it." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  assented  Emmeline,  with  a  shrug 
of  her  solid,  symmetrical  shoulders.  "It's  all  very 
well  for  you  to  say  that  —  you,  who've  been  through 
Cambridge,  and  go  wherever  you  please  in  London, 
and  can  take  the  steamer  home  again  as  soon  as  you're 
thoroughly  bored  hei-e."  She  looked  incredulously  at 
Elaine,  who  returned  her  look  in  the  same  way ;  and 
then  both  the  girls  laughed  in  concert,  as  though  they 
understood  very  well  what  an  easy  bit  of  harmless 
posing  it  was  for  such  an  adopted  Englishman  as  this 
to  air  a  little  dainty  patriotism. 

But  Massereene  at  once  answered,  in  a  voice  which 
he  had  lowered  and  otherwise  changed,  and  which 
instantly  made  both  his  hearers  comprehend  his  ex- 
treme earnestness  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  used  no  small 
amount  of  ardor  and  emphasis. 

"  All  that  I  say  I  mean.     And  I  regard  this  country, 


204  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

not  England,  as  my  real  home.  I've  no  right  to  do 
otherwise,  and  if  I  had  the  right  I  should  not  possess 
the  inclination.  I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  traveller  ;  I've 
been  in  many  other  lands ;  during  those  three  years  or 
so  since  I  last  met  you  young  ladies,  I've  seen  a  large 
part  of  the  Orient,  besides  some  rather  out-of-the-way 
places  in  Europe;  and  I  come  to  America  —  to  these 
United  States,  in  fact  —  with  a  belief  that  I  shall  be 
less  disappointed  here  than  I  have  ever  been  elsewhere, 
and  that  I  shall  find  more  true  civilization,  more  healthy 
national  greatness,  than  all  my  former  experiences  will 
be  able  to  offer  me." 

He  spoke  these  words  with  so  much  gentle  serenity 
that  they  quite  lost  the  form  of  disagreement  and  con- 
tradiction, while  retaining  the  significance  of  each. 
Possibly  Elaine  failed  to  perceive  either  their  full  drift 
or  force ;  for  almost  immediately  after  he  had  ended 
she  broke  in,  with  much  lightness  :  "  I  begin  to  think 
that  nothing  makes  one  such  a  good  American  as  to 
dwell  outside  of  one's  country." 

"  Wait  till  you've  been  here  a  few  months,  Jasper," 
said  Emmeline. 

"  I  hope  to  wait  that  long,"  replied  Massereene,  with 
the  implication  (as  often  was  noticeable  in  some  of 
his  most  placid  speeches)  of  meaning  more  than  he 
said. 

"  Oh,"  suddenly  cried  Elaine,  as  her  brother  Aspin- 
wall  now  entered  the  room ;  "  here's  a  young  gentleman 
who  would  be  very  glad  to  change  New  York  with  you 
for  London !  .  .  .  Aspy,  I  hope  you  haven't  forgotten 
our  cousin,  Jasper  Massereene." 

Forgotten  Jasper  Massereene !  Elaine  might  as  well 
have  asked  her  brother  if  he  had  forgotten  the  Houses 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAIXE.  205 

of  Parliament  or  the  Thames  Embankment.  He  was 
indeed  a  mere  boy  then,  though  it  was  only  three  years 
ago.  But  during  that  London  May  had  first  budded 
in  his  soul  the  eager  desire  to  be  what  he  had  since 
unf alterably  and  inflexibly  become  —  a  dude.  The 
very  word  had  not  then  shaped  its  quaint  monosyllable 
out  of  that  etymologic  mist  whence  it  has  so  phantas- 
mally  drifted  to  us,  but  it  now  expresses  to  perfection, 
nevertheless,  just  what  Master  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite 
found  himself  yearning  to  become.  Massereene  was 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  secret  reverence  with  which 
the  young  New  Yorker  watched  every  fresh  pair  of 
trousers,  coat,  or  waistcoat  in  which  he  appeared.  He 
dressed,  like  most  Londoners  of  his  age  and  position, 
somewhat  smartly  and  carefully.  But  to  Aspinwall 
he  was  the  silent  preacher  of  a  new  and  precious  creed. 
The  unnumbered  refinements,  delights,  intoxications 
of  dress  were  now  for  the  first  time  revealed  to  this 
noble-minded  boy's  expanding  intellect.  Aspinwall 
had  since  bloomed  forth  as  the  kind  of  young  gentle- 
man who  is  considerably  more  exercised  about  the 
spotlessness  of  his  gloves  than  of  his  moral  character, 
and  who  would  humiliate  himself  to  an  amazing  degree 
rather  than  wear  a  hat  which  had  not  come  out  of 
Piccadilly.  He  shook  hands  with  Massereene,  actually 
daring  to  pass  upon  the  latter's  clothes  a  rapid  mental 
criticism,  and  not  a  thoroughly  favorable  one  at  that. 
So  does  the  past  perish,  and  the  influence  of  memory 
and  tradition  grow  even  as  the  dust  that  we  sprinkle 
upon  the  wind  !  Still,  success  and  achievement  have 
their  stimulating  retrospections.  "By  Jove,"  thought 
Aspinwall,  while  he  buttoned  one  of  his  gloves,  "  the 
man  isn't  as  well  dressed  as  I  am  ! "  And  poor  Mas- 


206  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

sereene,  equally  ignorant  of  either  this  most  virile 
creature's  former  worship  or  hia  present  alienation, 
looked  as  amiable  as  usual,  and  tried  to  crush  a  doubt 
lest  his  visit  on  the  Satterthwaites  that  afternoon  might 
not  prove  a  trifle  fatiguing. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Aspy  ?  "  Emmeline  presently 
asked  of  her  brother,  who  carried  his  hat  besides  wear- 
ing his  gloves.  "  Or  have  you  just  come  in  ?" 

"  I'm  going  to  see  the  coaches  parade,"  returned 
Aspinwall ;  and  before  he  could  add  something  sul- 
lenly regi-etful  about  his  father's  coach  (for  reasons 
explainable  on  the  ground  of  family  bereavement)  not 
being  to-day  in  the  general  line  of  the  forthcoming 
procession,  Elaine  rather  excitedly  said  : 

"Oh,  let  us -all  go.  It's  only  a  few  streets  from 
here,  Jasper  —  Madison  Square,  you  know." 

"  I  recollect  Madison  Square  very  well,"  said  Mas- 
sereene. 

"  It's  our  apology  for  not  having  a  Hyde  Park,"  said 
Aspinwall,  sitting  forward  in  his  chair,  stooping'a  good 
deal,  and  knocking  the  but  of  a  phenomenal  silver- 
studded  stick  that  he  carried  against  the  knuckles  of 
one  gloved  hand.  "  It  will  seem  a  pretty  small  affair 
to  you,  Jasper,  after  the  big  London  show." 

"Well,  never  mind  whether  it  does  or  not,"  ex- 
claimed Emmeline.  "  You'll  go,  won't  you,  Jasper,  if 
Elly  and  I  run  upstairs  and  put  on  our  bonnets  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  with  pleasure,"  said  Massereene. 

Aspinwall  had  been  right.  It  did  seem  a  pretty 
small  affair,  this  New  York  apeing  of  a  custom  so 
essentially  English.  A  short  walk  brought  himself  and 
the  Satterthwaite  party  into  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Brunswick  Hotel,  that  establishment  which  began  by 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  207 

appropriating  to  its  uses  a  private  residence  and  then 
absorbed  other  contiguous  ones,  until  it  now  looms 
from  the  corner  of  Twenty-Sixth  Street  and  Fifth 
Avenue  as  a  curiously  ill-proportioned  and  many- 
windowed  pile,  shorn  of  all  dignity  by  its  irregular 
roofage.  Massereene  and  his  companions  reached  the 
great  gathered  throng  of  people  a  trifle  too  late. 
Eleven  coaches  paraded  that  day,  and  their  place  of 
rendezvous  had  been  the  east  side  of  Madison  Square, 
opposite  that  row  of  mansions  which  is  perhaps  the 
most  advantageously  and  salubriously  situated  of  any 
in  our  narrow  and  building-crowded  metropolis.  One 
or  two  of  the  coaches  had  now  passed  the  hotel,  and 
the  rest  were  slowly  following,  amid  the  continuous 
mellow  clamor  of  horns  made  by  some  of  their  various 
occupants.  The  small,  well-trained  horses,  four  at  each 
vehicle,  stepped  along  with  a  brisk  yet  suppressed 
energy.  They  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  the  rainbow 
burdens  that  they  drew,  for  the  coaches  themselves 
were  severally  tinted  blue,  green,  red,  and  yellow,  in 
chromatic  disdain  of  all  sombre  panelling,  and  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  had  climbed  up  to  their  accommo- 
dating summits  were  clad  in  costumes  of  a  most  uncon- 
ventional gayety.  The  gentlemen  wore  "  white  hats," 
with  a  few  dusky  exceptions,  and  many  of  them  were 
apparelled  in  pearl-hued  coats  with  large  gaudy  nose- 
gays bulging  from  the  lapels  of  these.  The  ladies,  as 
next  day's  papers  recorded  of  them,  wore  robes  of 
"mouse-colored  brocade,"  "white  silk  trimmed  with 
flowered  foulard,"  "crushed  strawberry  satin,"  and 
numberless  other  stuffs  quite  as  costly  and  modish.  .  .  . 
Massereene  watched  it  all,  and  through  his  mind,  as 
he  did  so,  may  have  slipped  the  silent,  instinctive  com- 


208  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

ment :  "  C'est  magnifique^  mais  ce  n'est  pas  la 
guerre" 

It  was  certainly,  in  a  limited  way,  magnificent ;  and 
yet  to  him  who  had  seen,  season  after  season,  the  far 
more  diverting  and  spectacular  exhibition  of  Hyde 
Park,  with  such  superior  amplitude  of  local  surround- 
ing and  a  multiplicity  of  coaches  which  put  this  pitia- 
ble eleven  into  humble  numerical  shade,  it  seemed  like 
the  most  meagre  attempted  repetition  of  memorial 
grandeurs.  It  was  English,  and  yet  it  was  somehow 
not  English  enough  to  be  authentic.  He  felt  a  kind 
of  pained  shame  as  he  continued  to  look  upon  it ;  the 
very  expressions  of  the  men  and  women  who  sat  upon 
the  coaches  were  in  many  cases  not  those  which  he 
would  have  desired  to  see  on  the  faces  of  his  country- 
people.  They  were  often  smiling  enough,  but  they 
were  daintily  arrogant  and  even  childishly  pretentious 
as  well.  Perhaps  they  had  been  that  in  London,  too  ; 
but  he  had  not  thought  of  it  there.  It  had  possibly 
suited  England  ;  it  smote  him  like  the  most  unrepub- 
lican  of  discords  now  and  here.  Emmeline  and  Elaine 
and  Aspmwall  were  delivering  their  keenly  interesting 
remarks  at  his  side,  but  he  scarcely  realized  the  sense 
of  what  they  spoke ;  he  was  thinking  whether  such  a 
proceeding  as  the  present  one  were  not  a  shame  and 
a  folly  to  be  regretted  and  denounced. 

"  There's  Minnie  Saltonstall,"  Elaine  was  saying. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  unbecoming  hat  ?  .  .  . 
And  Lou  Rivington's  feather,  Em  —  do  look  !  .  .  .  Oh, 
dear,  this  is  the  first  time  for  an  age  that  we  haven't 
been  in  the  coaching-parade,  too.  .  .  .  Aspy,  stop  try- 
ing to  make  Jenny  Hudsonbank  see  you.  .  .  .  Just 
think !  I  was  to  have  worn  my  pink  silk,  new  from 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  209 

Worth,  and  papa  had  filled  his  coach  with  such  a  jolly 
lot  of  people  after  we'd  been  invited  to  go  on  the 
others.  .  .  .  Look  at  Sadie  Yan  Tassel ;  she  got  the 
box-seat,  after  all,  on  the  Van  Courtlandt  coach,  didn't 
she  ?  " 

"Don't  speak  so  loudly,  Elly,"  remonstrated  Emme- 
line.  "Recollect  where  we  are.  People  are  hearing 

you." 

These  people,  whether  they  heard  or  did  not  hear, 
appeared  to  Massereene  as  un-English  in  the  extreme. 
They  had,  for  the  most  part,  none  of  that  stolid  re- 
cipient quiescence  which  usually  marks  the  British 
looker-on  during  any  such  distinctly  patrician  mani- 
festation. They  either  stared  greedily  at  the  whole 
performance,  as  though  it  were  in  all  respects  novel 
to  them,  or  they  contemplated  it  with  sinister  grades 
of  expression  that  varied  from  smouldering  sarcasm  to 
overt  hostility.  But  the  latter  sign  was,  after  all,  not 
frequent,  nor  was  the  locality  one  to  call  it  forth.  A 
good  deal  of  socialism  may  lurk  among  the  beer- 
saloons  of  the  Bowery  and  its  contiguous  streets ;  but 
Fifth  Avenue,  in  the  jocund  sunshine  of  a  May  after- 
noon, is  rather  too  blithe  a  place  for  such  grim  pedes- 
trians as  these  to  choose  it.  Massereene  soon  caught, 
however,  some  grunted  sounds  of  disgust  not  far  away 
from  him,  and  on  turning  saw  that  a  massive-framed 
Irishman,  with  a  ruffianly  look  about  his  very  soiled 
face,  had  just  addressed  a  mate  nearly  as  clumsy  and 
unkempt  as  himself. 

"  Jim,"  said  the  man,  with  a  broad,  red,  snarl- 
ing sort  of  grin,  "  is  them  fellers  lords,  d'ye 
think?" 

"They  luk  's  if  they  wus,"  growled  Jim,  under  a 


210  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

clotted  auburn  moustache,  while  lie  scratched  one 
bristly  jowl  with  dirt-caked  nails. 

His  comrade  gave  a  bitter,  gruff,  contemptuous 
laugh.  "American  lords  and  ladies  —  dooks  and 
duchusses?"  he  exclaimed,  so  shrilly  that  perhaps 
a  score  or  so  of  people  heard  him.  "  They  ain't  the 
genooine  make,  not  quite,  but  they're  warranted  to 
wear,  so  they  are,  almost  ez  good.  Come  along,  Jim." 
And  he  drew  his  friend  away,  with  another  scoffing 
laugh.  "  It's  a  queer  kind  o'  country,  this  Ameriky, 
annyhow.  It's  ahvus  a-screamin'  out  that  it's  freer 
nur  any  other,  an'  it  screams  this  so  loud  that  half 
the  fools  in  the  wurld  is  gettin'  to  believe  it." 

The  man's  voice  died  into  distance,  but  the  meaning 
of  what  he  had  said  stayed  frettingly  with  Masscreene 
for  some  minutes  afterward.  Then  he  shook  off  the 
little  chill,  as  of  omen,  that  it  gave  him  —  the  pre- 
sentiment that  his  own  hopes  and  expectations  might 
not  be  satisfied  and  confirmed.  And  meanwhile  he 
heard  Emmeline's  voice  at  his  side,  murmuring  rather 
petulantly:  "What  are  those  dreadful  men  saying?  I 
do  think  they  ought  to  have  dividing-lines,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  at  times  like  this.  One  has  no  idea 
whom  one  is  being  jostled  against." 

This  had  for  Massereene  a  decidedly  "  West  End  " 
sound.  But  he  made  no  reply,  and  watched  the  en- 
tire procession  out,  feeling  rather  bored  at  having  to 
do  so,  as  not  a  single  person  on  any  of  the  coaches 
chanced  to  be  known  to  him.  Now  and  then  he  fan- 
cied that  he  had  seen  one  of  the  men  in  some  London 
drawing-room,  or  perhaps  in  some  restaurant  like  the 
Hotel  Bristol  or  the  Cafe  Royal  in  Regent  Street. 
But  he  was  never  quite  sure  —  the  huge  English 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  211 

capital  is  so  huge,  and  human  countenances,  during 
all  occurrences  of  the  daily  routine,  so  rush  there 
upon  the  vision.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  the  parade 
ended  and  to  meet,  as  they  at  length  did,  Mr.  Bleecker 
Satterthwaite,  strolling  along  with  a  flower  in  his  but- 
tonhole and  the  general  demeanor  of  a  man  for  whom 
life  offers  no  requisition  more  of  a  chose  obligatoire 
than  whist,  billiards  or  coach-driving. 

Satterthwaite  was  apparently  very  glad  to  meet 
Massereene.  "  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  devil- 
ish shame  that  you  couldn't  have  seen  something  of 
all  this  fun.  "I'd  have  crowded  you  in  at  the  last 
minute  on  top  of  my  coach  —  yes,  I  would,  no  matter 
how  the  girls  and  the  men  fussed  and  fumed  about  it. 
And  I  was  to  have  such  a  jolly  load  ...  I  suppose 
the  girls  have  told  you.  Houston  Van  Rensselaer's 
dead  —  my  wife's  brother,  you  know.  Decency's  de- 
cency .  .  .  but  I  never  really  knew  the  man ;  he  was 
forever  living  abroad ;  he  hated  it  here.  .  .  .  Well, 
Jasper,  old  boy,  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you."  He 
put  one  hand  caressingly  on  Massereene's  shoulder  as 
they  all  walked  together  up  toward  the  Satterthwaite 
residence.  "  I  was  sure  you'd  come  over  at  last. 
You  look  just  the  same,  except  that  you're  a  trifle 
stouter." 

"  I've  gained  a  little  in  weight,"  said  Massereene. 

This  very  ordinary  remark  struck  Bleecker  Satter- 
thwaite as  something  especially  apt  and  neat.  Almost 
any  remark  that  Massereene  could  have  made  would 
thus  have  appealed  to  his  kinsman.  The  father  of 
Emmeline  and  Elaine  was  delighted  to  have  seen  his 
daughters  in  this  wholly  unexpected  company.  He 
had  already  swept  his  eyes  over  the  personnel  of 


212  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Massereene,  and  let  his  paternal  soul  swiftly  whisper 
to  him  that  he  was  a  possible  son-in-law  of  surpassing 
value.  Jasper  had  nearly  always  met  precisely  this 
kind  of  parental  welcome.  He  was  so  notoriously 
wealthy,  he  had  such  a  presentable,  reputable,  at- 
tractive mien.  Manoeuvring  English  mammas  of  the 
highest  position — 'wives  of  county  grandees,  baronets, 
and  even  noblemen  —  had  long  ago  forgiven  him  the 
drawback  of  his  American  birth  in  recalling  that  he 
was  rich,  handsome,  a  parti,  and  that  he  shared  the 
blood  of  the  Earl  of  Meath. 

Satterthwaite  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and  jo- 
cosely said  :  "  My  dear  Jasper,  don't  you  mind  a  few 
more  pounds  or  so  of  weight.  You  can  stand  them. 
You're  tall  enough  ;  they  don't  take  away  from  your 
good  looks.  It's  deuced  pleasant,  old  fellow,  to  see 
that  you  haven't  forgotten  us.  This  is  a  bad  season 
—  infernally  bad  season  for  New  York.  But  I'll 
write  you  down  at  the  Metropolitan  and  Gramercy 
clubs.  I'll  have  you  made  a  six-months'  visitor  at 
both,  if  you'll  agree  to  stay  here  as  long  as  that." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Massereene.  "  I  shall  certainly  stop 
here  as  long  as  six  months." 

When  Bleecker  Satterthwaite  had  reconducted  him 
into  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansion,  and  Emmeline,  Elaine, 
Aspinwall  and  the  head  of  the  house  himself  had  all 
gathered  about  him  with  a  profusion  of  conversational 
hospitality,  he  began  to  feel  the  utter  coldness  and 
worldliness  of  this  family  as  he  had  never  felt  it  be- 
fore. They  had  no  subject  to  discuss  except  banalite 
of  the  dreariest  kind.  Emmeline  was  a  little  different 
from  the  others ;  her  mind  seemed  now  and  then  of  an 
opposite  order ;  but  her  promises  of  a  more  interesting 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  213 

development  soon  faded.  Massereene  was  about 
taking  his  leave,  having  courteously  refused  an  invi- 
tation to  remain  and  dine,  when  Mrs.  Satterthwaite 
made  her  appearance. 

She  greeted  him  warmly.  But  she  appeared  to  for- 
get him  a  moment  afterward,  and  turned  towai'd  her 
husband  and  daughters. 

"  I  have  such  news  for  you  all,"  she  exclaimed,  sink- 
ing into  a  chair  and  beginning  to  untie  her  bonnet- 
strings  rather  agitatedly. 

Everybody  except  Massereene  gave  a  concerned 
start.  "  I  do  hope  it's  nothing  bad  about  Delaplaine," 
said  her  husband. 

"  Mamma !  "  exclaimed  Emmeline,  rising  and  coming 
forward  to  where  her  mother  sat.  "Is  he  dead?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  followed  Elaine,  rising  too,  and  remem- 
bering that  her  anxiety  (such  as  it  was)  had  "  Cousin 
Jasper"  for  an  observer.  "You  do  mean  that  Mr. 
Delaplaine  is  dead;  don't  you,  mamma?" 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  as  she  removed 
the  bonnet.  "  I  mean  something  much  .  .  .  well, 
much  stranger  than  that." 


214  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XII. 

Before  Olivia  had  taken  more  than  twenty  paces,  on 
having  closed  the  door  of  the  sick  man's  room,  she 
met  somebody  who  soon  addressed  her  dazed  senses 
as  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite.  And  yet  the  girl's 
mind  was  in  so  flurried  a  state  that  she  did  not  even 
recognize,  at  first,  the  person  who  accosted  her. 

"  Olivia,"  queried  her  aunt,  "  what  has  happened  to 
make  you  look  so  dreadfully  disturbed,  my  dear?" 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  knew  perfectly  well  what  had 
happened.  She  caught  both  of  her  niece's  hands  and 
held  them  tightly  while  she  scanned  the  delicate, 
alarmed,  bewildered  face  of  their  possessor. 

"I  have  had  a  great  shock,"  Olivia  said,  drawing  a 
deep  breath.  Then  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  followed  by 
a  quick,  distressful  glance.  "Did  you  have  any  idea 
that  he  —  he  was  going  to  speak  like  that?"  she  asked. 

"Like  that?"  repeated  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  as  her 
niece  broke  away  from  her.  "Why,  what  do  you 
mean?  What  has  he  said?" 

"  Forgive  me,  Aunt  Augusta ! "  now  fell  from 
Olivia.  She  was  pierced  by  an  abrupt  self-reproach 
for  having  done  her  aunt  an  injustice.  "Of  course 
you  did  not  know;  how  should  you  know?  Mr. 
Delaplaine  has  asked  me  to  marry  him  —  me!  On  his 
death-bed,  too !  Think  of  it !  " 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  thought  a  great  deal  more 
about  it  than  her  poor  young  kinswoman  remotely 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  215 

imagined.  She  now  threw  open  the  door  of  an  apart- 
ment next  to  that  from  which  Olivia  had  just  fled. 
"Come  in  here,  my  dear,"  she  murmured,  and  they 
entered  together.  She  had  not  been  quite  sure  of  her 
forthcoming  policy  until  now,  and  now  she  suddenly 
felt  herself  to  be  quite  sure.  There  was  a  large,  com- 
fortable, tufted  lounge  in  the  chamber,  and  as  Olivia 
sank  into  one  corner  of  this  her  aunt  sank  at  her  side. 
"I  will  be  very  frank  with  you,"  Mrs.  Satterthvvaite 
now  went  on.  "I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  had 
suspected  something  of  this  sort  would  take  place." 

"Mr.  Delaplaine  told  you,  then  —  ?" 

"  He  could  make  the  matter  plain  to  me  without 
precisely  telling  ...  do  you  not  understand?  And 
now  pray  let  me  know  just  what  passed  between  you." 

Olivia  clasped  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  lowered 
her  eyes,  and  gave  a  clear  if  somewhat  hesitating 
account  of  all  that  had  taken  place.  When  she  fin- 
ished, her  aunt  allowed  quite  a  marked  interval  of 
silence  to  ensue.  And  then  she  said,  very  measuredly 
and  reflectively : 

"My  dear,  it  seems  to  me  a  most  noble  action  on 
his  part.  And  if  you  were  to  do  as  he  requests,  no 
one  could  reasonably  blame  you.  Marriage,  Olivia,  is 
a  very  sacred  relation  ;  there  should  be  love  on  both 
sides ;  it  is  folly  to  affirm  there  should  not  be.  But 
this  proposed  marriage  is  an  affair  outside  of  all  ordi- 
nary considerations.  It  is  —  or  it  would  be,  my  dear 
—  a  marriage  of  duty.  I  don't  only  mean  duty  to 
your  dead  father's  old  friend  ;  I  mean  duty  to  your 
dead  father  himself." 

"Aunt  Augusta!  what  are  you  saying?" 

"The  truth,  Olivia  —  or  at  least,  the  truth  as  I  feel 


216  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

it  and  see  it.  Mr.  Delaplaine  cannot  live.  He  wishes 
to  save  you  endless  trouble  and  vexation  in  the  retain- 
ing of  that  inheritance  which  he  has  left  you  after  he 
is  gone.  He  told  you  this  —  you  admit  he  did.  Per- 
il aps  you  shrink  from  taking  such  a  step  because  you 
believe  it  would  be  so  hollow  a  mockery.  But  I  can't 
agree  with  you  on  that  point ;  I'm  older  than  you, 
and  I've  had  a  great  deal  more  experience  than  you 
can  possibly  have  had,  and  I  am  convinced  that  the 
whole  proceeding  (if  you  should  consent  to  it)  would 
rank  among  the  tenderest  and  sweetest  concessions 
that  a  young  girl  like  yourself  could  make  .  .  .  My 
dear  girl,  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  marrying  an  old  man 
for  his  money !  " 

Olivia  nodded  her  head  with  positiveness  here. 
"Yes,  it  is,"  she  exclaimed.  "It  isn't  anything  else. 
I  would  be  marrying  an  old  man  on  his  death-bed  for 
his  money.  Just  that ;  you  can't  make  it  different 
from  that ;  I'm  sure  that  you  can't." 

"  Let  us  see  if  I  cannot,  Olivia.  He  was  the  most 
faithful  and  devoted  friend  your  father  ever  had.  By 
leaving  you  his  fortune  he  confers  upon  you  a  benefit 
which  you  may  most  honorably  accept.  But  he  has 
relatives;  and  then,  most  probably,  the  members  of 
those  charitable  associations  to  which  he  had  be- 
queathed so  much,  having  learned  long  ago  of  his 
intended  bequests,  would  array  themselves  against  the 
administration  of  a  will  that  had  been  changed  a  short 
time  before  his  death.  .  .  .  All  such  distressing  re- 
sults as  these,  a  marriage  like  the  one  which  Mr. 
Delaplaine  proposes  would  swiftly  and  forever  pre- 
vent. .  .  .  Are  you  following  me,  my  dear  Olivia?  You 
somehow  look  as  if  you  were  not  ...  as  if  you  .  .  ." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  217 

"Oh,  I  hear  every  word  that  you  say?"  exclaimed 
Olivia,  rising  from  the  lounge  and  beginning  to  pace 
the  floor  with  drooped  head  and  with  hands  joined 
behind  her  back.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  remained  seated, 
watching  her  as  she  thus  unexpectedly  deported  herself. 

"  This  promises  well,"  thought  the  astute  lady.  She 
kept  silent  now,  waiting  for  her  niece  to  speak  again. 

"  If  I  did  do  it  I  can't  help  but  feel  certain  that  I 
would  act  with  a  —  a  mean,  grasping  selfishness." 
Olivia  said  nothing  more  for  some  little  time,  though 
she  still  continued  her  nervous  walk  from  end  to  end 
of  the  apartment.  She  was  thinking  of  her  life  at 
Mrs.  Ottarson's  —  of  the  odd,  coarse,  uncongenial  peo- 
ple whom  she  was  forced  to  meet  there  —  of  how  the 
changed  conditions  of  her  days  had  begun  to  affect 
her  with  an  incessant  erosive  and  unconquerable  dis- 
content. She  was  thinking  of  brief  moods  which  had 
recently  visited  her  when  she  had  told  herself  that  it 
would  perhaps  have  been  wisei*,  more  judicious,  to 
have  entered,  even  on  terms  of  genteel  dependence, 
into  the  household  of  either  the  Auchinclosses  or  the 
Satterthwaites.  There  she  might  have  had  her  mo- 
ments of  chagrin,  irritation,  humiliation,  but  at  least 
she  would  have  been  among  persons  who  knew  the 
convenances,  who  were  not  continually  reminding  her 
that  she  came  of  gentlefolk  and  they  did  not. 

"You  say,  Aunt  Augusta,  that  it  would  be  a  tender 
and  sweet  concession  on  my  part.  It  wouldn't  be  at 
all  that,  for  if  I  were  to  consent  I  should  have  only  the 
realization  that  I  had  done  so  on  my  own  account, 
and  not  Mr.  Delaplaine's." 

"  That  would  not  prevent  the  good  consequences  of 
what  you  did  do,  my  dear." 


218  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  Good  consequences  ! "  As  she  repeated  her  aunt's 
words,  Olivia  paused  directly  in  front  of  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite, and  looked  down  at  this  lady  with  eyes  full 
of  suppressed  fire.  "And  what  would  he  know  or 
care  when  he  was  dead?" 

"It  might  make  him  die  easier." 

Olivia  nodded  once  or  twice,  gnawing  her  lips.  Her 
face  appeared  to  have  aged  within  the  last  few  min- 
utes ;  she  had  never  seemed  less  maid-like  and  more 
womanly  than  now,  while  her  features  were  influenced 
by  traces  of  the  severest  trouble.  "  That  is  perhaps 
true  enough,"  she  exclaimed,  beginning  her  restive 
walk  again.  "  But  my  motive  !  I  can't  deceive  my- 
self by  not  admitting  that  I  would  be  marrying  him 
for  no  other  reason  than  the  money  he  has  settled  upon 
me.  If  he  wanted  me  to  marry  him  simply  as  an  act 
of  benevolence,  or  a  —  a  tribute  of  sentiment  before 
he  died,  would  I  hesitate  for  one  instant  in  my  re- 
fusal?" 

"Then  you  do  hesitate  now,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite. 

The  calm  question,  falling  in  modulated  tones  from 
this  wiliest  and  most  strategic  of  women,  dealt  Olivia 
a  kind  of  sting. 

"I  —  I  do  not  want  to  hesitate ! "  she  stammered, 
knotting  her  hands  together. 

"My  darling,  you  want  to  think  it  over  all  alone  by 
yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  rising,  going  up  to 
her,  and  kissing  her  on  one  cheek.  "  And  you  shall  do 
so.  ...  There,  I  will  leave  you  for  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes. Your  aunt  Letitia  was  to  be  here  this  afternoon ; 
perhaps  she  has  arrived.  .  .  .  And,  Olivia,  love,  re- 
member that  you  will  be  taking  a  step  of  which  we 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  219 

both  approve.  .  .  .  Candidly,  my  dear,  I  believe  that  if 
you  do  not  take  it  you  will  feel  pangs  of  conscience 
hereafter." 

"Especially  if  his  relatives  carry  a  successful  law- 
suit against  me,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  swift  irony  that 
was  quite  unwonted  in  her,  and  showed  how  sharp  a 
secret  moral  revolt  had  begun  against  the  temptation 
that  had  latterly  assailed  her. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  She 
understood,  with  her  worldly  shrewdness,  that  this 
bitter  sentence,  so  filled  with  feverish  self-reproach, 
had  its  practical  promise  of  surrender.  "  You  argue 
foolishly,  Olivia,"  she  murmured.  "  If  your  stay  at 
Mrs.  Ottarson's  has  fatigued  you,  and  you  feel  your- 
self unsuited  for  its  ...  peculiar  requirements,  that  is 
no  reason " 

"  But  I  have  not  said  that  it  fatigued  me,"  broke  in 
Olivia,  with  a  querulous,  perturbed,  self-contradictory 
look  straight  into  her  aunt's  composed  eyes. 

"  I  grant  that  you  have  not,  my  dear.  .  .  .  We  will 
let  that  pass.  .  .  .  But  you  must  not  assert  to  your  own 
mind  that  the  impulse  would  be  a  selfish  one.  You 
behave  more  heroically  than  you  now  perceive." 

"  Heroically  !     Aunt  Augusta !  " 

"Yes,  yes.  I  use  the  word  in  no  careless  way.  It 
would  all  be  a  very  fine  and  admirable  service  for  you 
to  perform.  Your  nice  sense  of  right  will  make  that 
plain  to  you  hereafter.  .  .  .  There,  no\v,  my  dear,  I 
will  leave  you  to  think  it  over,  as  I  said."  At  this 
point  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  glided  toward  the  door  which 
led  into  the  outer  hall.  "  Pray  wait  here  until  I  re- 
turn. If  you  decide  that  your  consent  is  impossible, 
please  don't  think  that  either  your  Aunt  Letitia  or  I 


220  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

will  attempt  to  use  with  you  the  least  strenuous  per- 
suasion. Oh,  no,  indeed.  Everything  will  be  left 
entirely  with  yourself  —  with  your  well-known  regard 
for  your  poor  lost  father  —  and  with  your  own  inter- 
pretation of  duty  toward  the  truest  and  most  faithful 
friend  whom  that  father  ever  knew." 

She  passed  at  once  from  the  room  after  thus  speak- 
ing. "  It's  in  the  girl  to  consent,"  she  rapidly  as- 
sured her  own  thoughts.  "  That  awful  woman,  with 
her  boarding-house  entourage,  has  had  just  the  effect 
I  hoped  for.  And  advice  will  do  the  rest  —  or  else 
I'm  immensely  wrong  in  my  whole  estimate." 

Olivia,  left  alone,  dropped  into  a  chair  and  stared  at 
the  floor.  She  had  been  slightly  affected  by  her  aunt's 
train  of  argument.  There  was  no  moral  reason  why 
she  should  marry  Spencer  Delaplaine.  She  did  not 
owe  it  to  her  dead  father ;  she  did  not  owe  it  to  her 
father's  dying  friend.  The  oath  of  marriage  was  too 
holy  a  one  to  be  taken  except  because  her  heart  willed 
that  she  should  swear  it.  If  Delaplaine  had  been  a 
man  whom  she  had  loved,  this  deathbed  union  would 
have  its  complete  justification,  and  its  romantic  sanc- 
tity as  well.  But  he  was  not  such  a  man,  and  to 
marry  him  would  be,  under  existing  circumstances,  a 
sacrifice  unsupported  by  rational  requirement.  Her 
father  would  never  have  asked  her  to  make  it ;  it 
must  mean  so  much  to  a  girl  of  the  least  sensitive- 
ness, the  least  sensibility 

"  And  yet "  her  musing  continued,  "I  stop  to  brood 
over  the  matter.  I  don't  refuse,  once  and  for  all,  to 
give  it  a  further  minute  of  consideration.  Why  is 
this?" 

She  met  and  faced  the  exact  solution      It  was  be- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  221 

cause  she  would,  reap  material  benefit  by  becoming 
Spencer  Pelaplaine's  wife.  She  was  far  too  honest  a 
custodian  of  her  own  mind  and  heart  not  to  insist 
upon  flouting  all  duplicity  with  either.  There  lay  the 
nude,  unflattering  truth.  To  allow  this  marriage 
would  be  to  soil  her  own  purity,  to  debase  her  ideal, 
no  matter  what  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  might  urge  in 
refutation. 

But  desire  pushed  its  claim  against  the  monitions  of 
honor.  Those  past  boarding-school  days  came  back 
vividly  to  Olivia  now.  She  recalled  the  sudden  self- 
abandonment  that  would  almost  seem  to  thrust  her 
over  .the  brink  of  some  misdeed.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  the 
same  at  this  moment?  Did  she  not  feel  that  old  ma- 
lign force  at  work? — the  insubordinate  obstinacy  of 
spirit — the  reaching  out  after  a  boon  forbidden  her 
by  order,  law,  propriety,  whatever  name  was  held 
fittest  to  bestow  on  the  opposing  stress  ?  Yet  she 
might  resist  if  she  chose.  It  had  always  been  thus  in 
former  days,  when  comparative  trifles  were  brought 
into  question  ;  and  now,  when  the  trial  was  of  larger 
moment  and  stronger  meaning,  she  also  might  resist  if 
so  inclined. 

But,  instead,  she  began  to  ask  herself  whether  men 
and  women  would  be  liable  to  call  such  a  marriage  on 
her  part  a  sordid  and  cold-blooded  one.  True,  it  would 
be  almost  like  standing  at  the  side  of  a  coffin,  and  be- 
coming the  bride  of  the  corpse ;  and  yet,  when  every- 
thing was  known,  as  everything  must  be  at  length 
known,  society  would  doubtless  take  the  same  view  of 
her  conduct  as  that  of  Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

And  then  —  the  subsequent  gain  !  Could  she  shut 
her  eyes  to  that  ?  All  the  freedom  and  independence 


222  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

of  a  married  woman  would  be  hers,  to  go  whither  she 
pleased,  to  do  a  hundred  things  that  in  an  unwedded 
member  of  her  sex  would  fall  under  the  head  of  pre- 
sumption or  immodesty.  The  fortune  bequeathed  her 
would  be  safe  from  litigious  attacks.  Olivia  knew 
very  little  about  the  methods  of  legal  administration 
in  any  country,  but  it  was  not  hard  for  her  to  assume 
with  confidence  that  as  the  wife  of  Delaplaine  her 
title  of  heirship  would  prove  unassailable.  And  what 
good  might  she  accomplish  with  her  fortune!  She 
had  often  declared  to  herself,  during  the  latter  years  of 
her  girlhood,  that  the  one  most  cogent  means  of  secur- 
ing earthly  happiness  was  in  the  vigilant  and  careful 
discharge  of  charitable  offices.  Once  possessed  of 
wealth,  she  would  never  find  contentment  in  such  idle 
pre-eminence  as  that  which  her  father's  two  sisters 
were  now  enjoying.  Not  she!  It  was  no  sophistry 
that  wrought  tricksy  spells  upon  her  here.  She  was 
willing  to  admit  her  own  selfishness  in  yielding  at  all 
to  the  voice  that  lured  and  enticed.  But  this  was  the 
generous  and  high-minded  side,  so  to  speak,  of  that 
very  selfishness.  Had  she  not  again  and  again  medi- 
tated upon  the  good  that  she  might  do  with  the  money 
of  which  her  orphanage  would,  as  she  once  so  firmly 
trusted,  make  her  the  mistress?  In  the  stillness  and 
suspense  of  her  father's  Inst  hours  thoughts  like  these 
had  often  come  to  her.  It  had  never  been  among  her 
musings,  for  some  strange  reason,  to  dream,  as  other 
girls  were  forever  doing,  of  a  possible  gallant,  gracious 
and  irreproachable  husband.  A  curious,  delicate,  vir- 
ginal fierceness  had  risen  within  her  the  moment  she 
let  her  brain  ponder  that  probability.  What  we  have 
heard  her  tell  Mrs.  Ottarsou  on  the  subject  of  never 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  223 

meaning,  to  marry,  had  been  spoken  straight  from  the 
maidenly  innocence  of  her  own  chaste,  candid,  fool- 
ishly devout  conviction. 

And  now  it  looked  very  much  as  if  she  would  in- 
deed marry  —  though  after  a  fashion  startlingly  differ- 
ent from  that  to  which  her  former  protestations  had 
borne  reference.  .  .  .  She  had  for  some  little  time 
ceased  to  pace  the  floor  of  the  apartment.  She  had 
thrown  herself  into  a  half-reclining  posture  upon  the 
lounge  when  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  softly  opened  the  door 
and  passed  into  the  room. 

"  My  dear,"  said  this  lady,  drawing  quite  close 
to  her,  "I  have  seen  your  Aunt  Letitia,  who  ad- 
vises .  .  ." 

"  Well,"  broke  in  Olivia,  lifting  up  her  head  and 
showing  how  pale  her  face  was,  "  what  does  Aunt 
Letitia  advise  ?  " 

"  That  you  do  not  trouble  yourself  any  further 
regarding  this  matter.  If  your  mind  is  not  made  up 
yet  ...  or  if  you  still  feel  that  you  had  best  not  con- 
sent .  .  ." 

Olivia  rose,  here,  with  suddenness.  "  My  mind  is 
made  up,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do  consent." 

"  My  dear  child  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  consent.  Neither  you  nor  Aiint  Letitia 
could  ever  persuade  me  that  I  am  doing  right  —  that 
I  am  doing  what  poor  papa  would  sanction  —  that  I 
am  serving  any  one's  true  interests  except  my  own." 
.  .  .  She  paused,  just  here,  and  the  feeblest  and  sad- 
dest of  laughs  made  at  her  lips  a  sound  that  seemed 
only  formed  to  die  there  as  drearily  as  it  did  die. 
"  But  I  am  resolved.  You  may  let  Mr.  Delaplaine 
know,  whenever  you  choose,  that  I  am  .  .  .  ready." 


224  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Daring  the  next  half-hour  or  so  Olivia  felt  herself 
beset  by  a  fright  that  quickened  her  pulses  and  more 
than  once  sent  shivers  through  her  frame.  But  her 
determination  had  been  taken.  She  moved  nervously 
about  the  room,  hardly  aware  that  she  did  not  still 
remain  seated.  She  knew  that  her  aunt  Augusta  had 
gone  away  again  to  superintend  certain  preparations. 
She  was  waiting.  Sometimes  her  heart  galloped  so 
wildly  that  she  believed  herself  on  the  verge  of  break- 
ing down  altogether  and  of  rushing  out  to  find  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite  and  avow  her  disability,  her  change  of 
mood,  her  withdrawal  of  everything  that  she  had 
lately  affirmed. 

But  no  such  hysterical  act  really  resulted  from  her 
perturbation.  She  did  not  herself  realize  how  strong 
was  the  new  desire  that  filled  and  ruled  her.  Unable 
to  do  more  than  despise  it,  she  still  perversely  clung  to 
the  idea  of  its  gratification.  Her  choice  was  made.  .  .  . 
When  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  re-entered  the  room  it  did 
not  seem  to  Olivia  as  if  she  had  been  away,  this  last 
time,  longer  than  five  minutes  at  the  utmost. 

Mrs.  Auchincloss,  on  the  present  occasion,  followed 
closely  behind  her  sister.  She  kissed  her  niece  and 
pressed  the  girl's  hand  ;  a  sense  of  duty  was  every- 
where manifest  in  her  behavior.  You  could  see  it,  too, 
in  the  lines  of  her  lips,  the  angle  at  which  she  held  her 
nose,  the  very  management  of  her  eyelids. 

"  There  is  something  truly  beautiful  in  your  having 
consented,  my  dear,"  she  whispered  to  Olivia. 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  beautiful  in  it  at 
all,  Aunt  Letitia,"  was  the  reply,  given  with  a  blunt 
promptitude  which  bespoke  more  self-possession  than 
Olivia's  kindled  eyes  and  pale,  twitching  lips  other- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  225 

wise  evidenced.  "  But  if  the  affair  is  really  to  be  gone 
through  with,  I  —  I  should  like  it  begun  —  yes,  and 
ended  —  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  still  retained  Olivia's  hand  ;  she 
softly  patted  it  with  her  other  disengaged  hand,  now. 
"I  have  heard,"  she  said,  "that  you  insist  upon  sepa- 
rating from  your  proposed  step  any  ...  er  ...  com- 
passionate or  ...  er  ...  duteous  impulse.  But  I 
know  that  this  exists  in  you  ;  your  Aunt  Augusta 
knows  it  as  well.  "We  both  .  .  ." 

Here  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  gave  a  little  dry  cough  of 
pronounced  impatience.  She  saw  that  Olivia's  con- 
dition was  more  excited  than  when  she  had  last  quitted 
the  chamber.  The  girl  looked  in  no  mood  to  endure 
much  discussion  of  her  resolve.  How  was  it  certain 
that  Mrs.  Auchincloss's  efforts  to  moralize  character- 
istically on  the  subject  might  not  result  in  some  sort  of 
impetuous  and  disastrous  recoil  ?  Besides,  Delaplaine's 
malady  had  assumed  still  more  fatal  symptoms.  It 
was  by  no  means  a  surety  that  he  would  last  until 
morning.  What  was  to  be  done  had  best  be  quickly 
done.  And  so  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  translated  her  ad- 
monitory cough,  as  it  were,  by  at  once  saying :  — 

"  Letitia,  I  really  think  we  should  lose  no  time." 

Olivia  drew  her  hand  away  from  the  caressing  clasp 
of  her  elder  aunt  with  a  vehemence  of  movement  that 
admitted  no  misinterpretation. 

"  Yes,"  she  exclaimed,  "  do  not  let  us  lose  any  time. 
It  might  turn  out  very  badly  for  me  if  I  did  so." 

The  irony  in  that  final  sentence  could  not  fail  to 
affect  its  hearers.  It  caused  them  to  exchange  a  look. 

O 

It  made  Mrs.  Auchincloss  pretend  that  she  was  griev- 
ously surprised  ;  it  sent  from  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Satter- 


226  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

thwaite  the  glance  that  seemed  to  say :  "  Don't  disturb 
her  any  more  than  she  is  disturbed  now.  Leave  good 
alone.  Don't  you  see  that  she  may  break  down  if  we 
are  not  careful !  " 

The  apartment  of  Delaplaine,  as  Olivia,  between  her 
two  aunts,  entered  it  a  little  while  afterward,  was  con- 
siderably less  dim  than  when  she  had  hurried  thence 
hardly  an  hour  ago.  Two  or  three  figures  stood  near 
the  bed,  and  one  of  these,  from  its  clerical  attire,  left 
no  doubt  that  it  was  the  minister  summoned  to  per- 
form the  wedding  ceremony.  Delaplaine  lay  with 
open  eyes  and  an  expression  of  suffering  on  his  hueless 
face.  But  he  smiled  faintly  as  his  gaze  rested  upon 
Olivia.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  gently  pushed  her  niece 
to  the  edge  of  the  bed.  An  extreme  stillness  reigned 
in  the  apartment. 

Olivia  heard  her  own  heart  beat  as  the  sick  man 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  slowly  clasped  hers.  She 
let  him  draw  it  toward  him.  Her  head  grew  a  little 
dizzy  then,  and  she  feared  that  she  might  fall.  But 
soon  this  most  tormenting  sensation  passed,  and  she 
perceived  that  the  gentleman  in  the  clerical  dress  was 
close  beside  her.  He  looked  down  at  Delaplaine,  who 
was  breathing  somewhat  heavily  now,  and  whose  eyes 
would  close  for  a  few  seconds,  quickly  to  re-open  and 
seek  the  face  of  Olivia,  with  a  sharp  relief  that  had  the 
meaning  of  "  Ah  !  you  are  still  there  ! "  and  with  a 
sudden  tightening  of  his  feverish  fingers  about  the 
girl's  palm.  And  in  response  to  the  clergyman's  mute 
inquiry,  Delaplaine  nodded  a  very  faint  affirmative. 

The  large,  soft  hand  of  the  clergyman  fell  upon  his 
and  Olivia's  where  they  lay  joined.  And  then  a  low, 
rich  voice  broke  the  silence,  repeating  the  Episcopal 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  227 

wedding  service.  ...  To  Olivia  it  all  had  a  dream- 
like unreality  and  rapidity.  The  ring  had  been 
slipped  on  her  finger,  and  the  last  words  of  the  sacred 
ritual  were  being  uttered,  when  she  became  aware  that 
Delaplaine's  breathing  was  louder  and  more  difficult 
than  it  had  yet  sounded.  "  If  he  should  die  before  we 
are  fully  married  !  "  swept  through  her  mind.  ...  A 
little  later  her  aunts  drew  her  away ;  he  seemed  in 
great  pain,  and  she  heard  him  moan,  "  My  side  !  my 
side ! "  as  if  the  chief  agony  were  there. 

Both  her  aunts  kissed  her,  and  then  she  let  them  lead 
her  from  the  room 

"  Will  he  live  much  longer?"  she  asked  in  low  and 

O 

trembling  tones. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  spoke  :  "  The  doctors  think 
not." 

"I  —  I  wish  to  go,  now,"  said  Olivia.  " I  will  of 
course  come  to-morrow,  and  send  this  evening  from 
Aunt  Thyrza's  to  find  out  how  he  is.  But  I  would 
prefer  to  go,  now." 

She  saw  amazement  depict  itself  on  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs's  face.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  raised  both  hands 
and  shook  her  head  in  energetic  negative.  The  latter 
immediately  spoke,  saying : 

"Go  now,  Olivia!  Why,  my  dear,  of  what  can  you 
be  thinking?  "And  then  Mrs.  Auchincloss :  "Go 
now,  Olivia ! " 

They  had  all  three  just  entei'ed  the  same  room 
whence  Olivia  had  passed  in  their  company  only  a 
short  while  since.  The  girl  stood  in  the  centre  of 
this  room,  after  thus  being  unexpectedly  addressed, 
and  let  her  eyes  wander  from  the  countenance  of  one 
companion  to  that  of  the  other. 


228  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  she  faltered,  "  why 
can  I  not  go  now?  I  have  done  what  you  required 
me  to  do.  I  —  I  have  married  him.  He  is  very  ill; 
he  is  going  to  die."  Here  she  paused.  The  pain  of 
remorse  was  already  at  work  in  her.  She  had  been 
quite  certain  the  remorse  would  come.  In  other 
times,  after  she  had  yielded,  and  doggedly  committed 
the  very  fault  which  she  recognized  as  a  fault,  she  had 
always  foreseen  the  stabs  of  conscience  to  which,  as  it 
were,  she  had  both  rashly  and  deliberately  committed 
herself.  But  the  remorse,  like  the  culpability,  had 
been  of  so  different  kind,  then  !  A  tremulous  nervous 
weakness,  a  gloom  of  spirits,  a  shrinking  from  the 
arraignments  of  her  own  mortified  and  incensed  moral 
obligations,  had  commenced  to  play  fatal  havoc  with 
her  inward  peace.  She  felt  none  of  the  calmer  reac- 
tion that  with  many  natures  would  succeed  fulfilment 
of  a  purpose  conceived  in  turmoil  of  soul  and  executed 
as  the  means  to  a  self-serving  attainment. 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  stay  here,"  she  at  length 
continued,  with  a  wistful  though  petulant  ring  in  her 
voice,  "  until  .  .  .  until  it  happens.  It  may  not  happen 
for  hours  yet  —  perhaps  not  for  a  day  or  two  longer." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  drew  near  to  her  and  laid  a  light 
but  firm  touch  on  her  arm.  "  Olivia,"  this  model  of 
all  the  higher  and  better  duties  now  exclaimed,  "do 
you  not  see  that  your  present  part  is  to  behave  as  if  it 
might  not  happen  at  all  ?  " 

"  As  if  ...  it  ...  might  not  happen  at  all  ?  "  she 
repeated  brokenly.  "  No ;  I  don't  see  that  I  should 
so  behave,  Aunt  Letitia.  At  least  not  to  yow." 

"Your  aunt  is  right,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite.  "  Remember,  you  are  a  wife  now." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  229 

"Yes  ...  I  am  his  wife.  .  .  .  And  I  shall  soon  be 
his  widow." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  gave  her  sister  a  despairing  glance. 
" But,  Olivia,  you  are  not  his  widow  yet" 

"No,"  was  the  answer.  She  looked  down  at  the 
wedding-ring  on  her  finger.  "Not  yet.  Well?  And 
if  I  am  not?" 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  was  about  to  speak,  at  this  point, 
but  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  silenced  her  by  a  gesture  half 
imploring  and  half  commanding. 

"Your  proper  place,  then,  is  here  —  here  in  this 
house.  Don't  you  see  that  it  is?  ...  Word  will  be 
sent  to  Mrs.  Ottarson,  if  you  wish.  Change  of  attire,  my 
dear,  and  all  that,  will  be  attended  to.  But  you  ought 
not  to  leave  this  house  .  .  .  you  must  not  leave  it." 

The  door  of  the  room  had  been  left  ajar.  At  this 
moment  the  graceful  and  handsome  youth  whom 
Olivia  had  seen  not  long  ago,  and  whose  name  she 
had  learned  to  be  Adrian  Etherege,  crossed  the  thresh- 
old. He  went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  and 
said,  in  his  clear,  soft,  winning  voice : 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine  is  suffering  very  much,  but  he  has 
asked  to  see  you." 

"I  will  go  to  him,"  was  the  lady's  ready  answer. 
She  made  a  step  or  two  toward  the  door,  and  then 
turned,  addressing  Olivia: 

"You  will  remain  here  till  I  come  back,  my  dear? 
You  will  remain  with  your  Aunt  Letitia?" 

Olivia  made  no  answer.  She  had  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  Adrian  Etherege.  As  if  possessed  by  a  sudden 
idea,  she  approached  the  young  man,  standing  close 
at  his  side  before  he  himself  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  what  she  had  done. 


230  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "do  you  think  that  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine  will  live  through  the  night?" 

He  whom  she  thus  questioned  gave  a  start.  His 
large,  luminous  brown  eyes  lost  all  their  gentleness, 
for  an  instant,  as  they  met  Olivia's.  A  hardness,  a  bit- 
terness, for  which  she  was  totally  unprepared,  seized 
and  altered  his  charming  visage.  .  .  .  And  then  the 
change  vanished  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come.  ...  It  had 
already  passed  when  he  responded,  in  a  voice  full  of 
respectful  courtesy : 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  long  Mr.  Delaplaine  may  live. 
But  I  do  not  believe  he  is  dying  now  at  all.  He  is 
very  ill,  but  I  have  every  hope  that  he  will  recover." 

"  Recover  ?"  murmured  Olivia.  .  .  .  She  shot  a  wild 
look  at  either  of  her  two  kinswomen.  Both  of  them 
avoided  it. 

"Recover?"  she  again  said  ...  In  another  minute 
the  room  had  begun  to  whirl  about  with  her.  She 
knew  that  she  was  staggering  as  she  tried  to  find  her 
seat.  One  of  her  aunts  —  she  could  not  tell  which 
one — helped  her  to  find  it. 

"You  are  ill,  my  dear,"  she  heard  a  voice  say.  She 
could  not  make  out  to  whom  the  voice  belonged,  her 
brain  seemed  in  such  a  tumult. 

"Recover?"  she  murmured  once  more,  though 
unaware  that  for  the  third  time  this  word  had  left 
her  quivering  lips. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  231 


XIII. 

THE  faintness  that  had  assailed  Olivia  soon  left  her. 
When  she  sat  up  and  looked  about  her  once  more  with 
a  clear  gaze,  Adrian  Etherege  had  quitted  the  room. 
Her  first  words  were  spoken  to  Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

" Do  you  believe  this  to  be  true? "  she  asked. 

"You  mean  what  Adrian  just  said?"  she  replied. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  precisely  what  I  do  mean." 

Mrs.  Sattei-thwaite  had  gone  toward  the  door,  and 
her  hand  was  already  on  its  knob.  A  request  from 
Spencer  Delaplaine  at  such  an  hour  was  not  to  be  dis- 
regarded. "  Positively,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not 
believe  it  to  be  true.  This  young  man,  perhaps,  finds 
it  hard  to  realize  that  death  has  actually  come.  .  .  . 
There,  I  must  leave  you.  Remain  with  your  Aunt  Le- 
titia  .  .  .  promise  me  that  you  will." 

Olivia  made  no  answer,  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite 
quitted  the  room  with  a  furtive  and  telling  signal  to 
her  sister.  The  latter  understood  perfectly ;  she  was 
enjoined  to  repress  all  tendency  on  their  niece's  part 
in  the  direction  of  escape.  And  Mrs.  Auchincloss  was 
pi'epared  to  oppose  that  course  in  Olivia  with  quite  as 
much  vigor  as  any  which  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  could  have 
drawn  upon. 

Olivia  had  seated  herself  now.  She  was  very  pale, 
but  her  former  excitement  had  apparently  quite  van- 
ished. Mrs.  Auchincloss  took  a  seat  on  the  lounge  at 
her  side. 


232  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  Have  you  such  a  horror,  then,  of  Mr.  Delaplaine's 
recovery,  my  dear?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"Why  should  I  not  have?"  she  answered  in  a  voice 
that  rang  firm  and  steady,  but  held  a  new  hollow 
note,  like  the  emanation  from  some  great  hidden  dread 
or  anxiety.  "  If  I  thought  he  would  get  well,  Aunt 
Letitia,"  she  went  on,  "I  am  almost  certain  that  I 
would  kill  myself." 

"  Olivia  !     What  are  you  saying?  " 

"  I  would  either  kill  myself  or  else  hide  from  him 
—  somewhere,  miles  and  miles  distant  —  where  he  would 
not  dream  of  finding  me."  She  gave  a  slight,  dolorous 
laugh  here.  "But  he  would  find  me,  would  he  not, 
in  these  days  of  telegraphs,  detectives,  and  newspapers, 
if  he  only  searched  enough  ?  " 

"  My  child ! " 

"  Oh,  the  very  thought  is  so  terrible !  It  has  given 
me  a  kind  of  benumbed  feeling.  I  was  merely  flut- 
tered and  distraite  before,  thinking  of  how  coldly 
calculating  a  thing  I  had  done !  But  now  this  seems 
like  a  vague  threat  of  punishment."  She  drew  herself 
up,,  and  a  smile  flashed  along  her  lips.  "I  am  too 
absurd,  however,  am  I  not?  There  is  no  chance  — 
none  at  all.  That  young  man,  Adrian  Etherege,  gave 
me  such  a  shock !  I  wish  he  had  not  spoken  as  he 
did ;  I  fancy  I  shall  detest  the  very  sight  of  him  after 
this,  handsome  though  he  is." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  felt  chilled  into  silence.  This  ab- 
horrence that  was  ready  to  steep  itself  in  the  blackest 
tide  of  tragedy,  frightened  and  amazed  her.  She  was 
unused  to  such  robustness  of  emotion ;  she  had  held 
it  in  polite  and  dainty  scorn  all  through  her  life.  A 
surge  of  regret  swept  over  her  that  she  —  she,  Letitia 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  233 

Auchincloss,  a  woman  of  race  and  breeding  and  the 
most  haughtily  exclusive  habit  —  should  thus  have 
encountered  the  risk  of  being  connected  with  anything 
so  sensational,  so  "  newspaperish,"  as  the  headlong 
despair  at  which  her  niece's  behavior  hinted.  After  a 
while  she  falteringly  managed  to  say,  while  Olivia  sat 
with  eyes  riveted  on  the  floor  and  her  lips  tightly 
locked  together : 

"You  will  not  for  a  moment  imagine,  my  dear,  that 
I  have  had  the  least  desire  to  make  you  act  otherwise 
than  as  a  dutiful  daughter  of  your  poor  papa.  I  was 
quite  without  knowledge,  on  the  other  hand,  Olivia, 
that  you  entertained  such  repugnance  toward  Mr. 
Delaplaine.  .  .  .  And,  indeed,  if  I  had  supposed  — " 

"I  entertain  no  repugnance  toward  him,"  Olivia 
trenchantly  broke  in,  lifting  her  head  and  showing  how 
much  trouble  blent  with  her  strange  composure.  "  But 
to  —  to  really  be  his  wife!  "  She  put  her  hands  up  to 
her  face,  covering  it  from  sight.  Her  aunt  watched 
her,  while  a  faint  tremor  shook  her  frame.  "  Do  not 
let  us  talk  of  that  subject,  please,"  she  continued,  let- 
ting her  hands  fall  again  into  her  lap.  ..."  You  wish 
me  to  remain  here,  you  and  Aunt  Augusta.  You  think 
it  best  that  I  should  stay  over-night.  .  .  .  Well,  I  will 
do  so.  But  I  must  send  for  Aunt  Thyrza  —  for  Mrs. 
Ottarson.  You  don't  like  her,  either  of  you,  I  know. 
But  I  must  send  for  her,  all  the  same.  She  will  come 
to  me  as  soon  as  she  gets  my  note.  .  .  .  Where  can  I 
write  it  ?  a  bit  of  paper  and  a  pencil  are  all  that  I 
want.  I  must  write  it  at  once."  She  rose  as  she  fin- 
ished speaking,  a'nd  looked  about  the  room.  She  saw 
a  desk  in  one  corner,  hastened  toward  it,  and  perceived 
that  writing-paper  was  placed  there,  with  pen  and  ink. 


234  OLIVIA .  DELAPLAINE. 

She  seated  herself  before  the  desk,  and  began  a  note 
to  her  aunt  with  extraordinary  swiftness.  Mrs.  Auch- 
incloss,  from  her  place  on  the  lounge,  gazed  with  lifted 
eye-glasses  at  this  hurried  proceeding.  "  If  that  horri- 
ble woman  is  to  be  sent  for,"  she  reflected,  "  I  had 
best  go."  It  struck  this  lady  very  much  as  if  she 
might  be  instrumental  in  having  sown  the  wind  to  reap 
a  hurricane.  She  had  always  borne  herself  as  a  placid 
idolatress  of  conventionalism,  and  now,  when  there 
was  even  a  dim  omen  of  her  flawless  respectability 
being  put  into  any  peril,  she  desired  to  lift  her  nice 
skirts  clear  of  the  least  soilure. 

"  There,"  said  Olivia,  having  finished,  sealed,  and 
directed  her  note.  "  I  have  made  it  short,  but  Aunt 
Thyrza  will  understand  that  I  want  her."  She  rose, 
and  again  glanced  about  the  apartment  in  search  of  a 
bell.  She  saw  one  and  went  to  it.  As  she  rang  it  she 
proceeded,  still  in  the  same  collected  voice  that  she  had 
used  of  late :  "  I  must  have  the  note  sent  without 
delay.  Some  servant  will  be  found  to  take  it,  of 
course." 

"  I  suppose  so,  Olivia,"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss. 
"  How  you  do  cling  to  that  lady,  my  dear !  " 

"  I  cling  to  her  because  she  is  the  only  real  friend 
whom  I  now  have  on  earth  !  " 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  rose  from  the  lounge  with  a  pained 
look.  "Are  not  your  Aunt  Augusta  and  I  your  friends, 
my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Olivia,  with  an  unmerciful  frank- 
ness. "But  you  are  not  —  pardon  me  for  expressing 
just  what  I  mean  at  such  a  time  —  you  are  not  the 
same  to  me  as  Aunt  Thyrza  is.  I  want  her  near  me 
now,  and  I  must  either  have  her  here  or  else  go  to  her." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  235 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  sighed.  "  Then  you  agree  to  stay 
until  she  comes  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well.  Please  do  not  expect  me  to  meet 
her;  that  is  all." 

"  I  don't  expect  it,  or  even  wish  it." 

Mrs.  Auchincloss  sighed  again  and  walked  toward 
the  door.  Just  as  she  did  so  it  was  opened,  and  her 
sister  once  more  appeared. 

Olivia,  on  seeing  her,  instantly  said:  "Well?  .  .  . 
what  is  the  news  ?  " 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  eyed  her  niece  with  much  as- 
sumed gravity.  "Mr.  Delaplaine  is  very  weak,  my 
dear,"  she  answered,  "  and  failing  fast." 

"Ah!"  said  Olivia,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "Then 
that  young  man  —  Adrian  Etherege  —  was  wrong  ?  " 

"  I  fear  he  was,"  returned  Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 

"  Augusta !  "  here  exclaimed  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  in 
tones  of  great  distress,  "I  —  I  am  most  wretchedly 
agitated  by  what  Olivia  has  been  saying.  I  —  I  feel 
myself  to  have  been  thoroughly  misunderstood.  I 
had  no  conception  that  she  shrank  with  such  loathing 
from  the  possibility  of  Mr.  Delaplaine's  recovery. 
She  has  written  to  Mrs.  Ottarson,  and  insists  upon 
having  her  note  at  once  sent  to  that  .  .  .  person. 
And  she  has  spoken  words  which  have  more  than 
shocked  me  —  words,  I  mean,  relative  to  her  course 
of  conduct  in  the  —  the  event  of  Mr.  Delaplaine's 
not  dying.  She  has  mentioned  suicide,  Augusta  — 
yes,  really  i  ...  It  is  all  too  dreadful !  I  must  not 
stay  here  and  listen  to  such  language  any  longer ;  it 
has  made  me  truly  ill.  I  —  I  shall  go  at  once.  I 
should  never  have  consented  to  this  marriage  —  never! 


236  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

—  if  I  had  known  our  niece  had  entered  into  it  with 
such  extremely  worldly  intentions." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  surveyed  her  plaintive  sister 
tranquilly  enough.  "  You  are  scared  out  of  your  wits 
and  want  to  play  traitor  to  me,"  she  told  her  own 
thoughts. 

But  aloud  she  said:  "Very  well,  Letitia.  Leave 
me  to  speak  with  Olivia  alone."  And  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs,  with  a  most  aggrieved  shake  of  the  head  and  a 
deprecating  elevation  of  both  hands,  passed  from  the 
chamber. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  to  Olivia,  as 
soon  as  they  two  were  alone  together,  "  what  folly  is 
all  this  ?  "  The  girl  gave  no  answer,  and  she  present- 
ly went  on  with  harsh  directness  :  "  It  certainly  has 
not  the  advantage  of  being  in  good  taste." 

"Good  taste,"  murmured  Olivia,  with  a  laugh  full 
of  forlorn  mockery.  "I  should  say  not.  No  more 
has  the  act  I've  been  guilty  of." 

"  No  one  sees  guilt  in  it  except  yourself.  Come, 
Olivia,  be  sensible.  I  haven't  a  doubt  that  you've 
been  shocking  your  poor  Aunt  Letitia  half  to  death. 
Fortunately  it  is  not  quite  so  easy  to  shock  me. 
What  you  have  done,  my  dear,  you  have  done.  Re- 
trogression is  too  late,  now.  You  were  not  forced  to 
take  the  course  you  did  take.  I  have  a  very  clear 
recollection  of  my  own  words  to  you  just  before  your 
decision  was  made  —  of  how  I  advised  that  you  should 
not  trouble  yourself  any  further  regarding  this  matter. 
But  you  chose  to  do  otherwise.  As  for  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine's  condition,  you  can't  say  I  deceived  you  the 
least  in  that.  I  thought  him  fatally  ill  then,  and  I 
think  him  fatally  ill  now.  .  .  .  Really,  Olivia,  if  you 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  237 

talked  about  suicide,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  with  your 
Aunt  Letitia,  you  did  so  without  the  faintest  provoca- 
tion. I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  will  have 
ceased  to  live  in  twenty-four  hours'  time." 

Olivia  felt  those  latter  sentences  nerve  and  cheer 
her  beyond  expression.  A  little  while  ago  she  would 
hotly  have  resented  such  a  charge  as  that  she  could, 
under  any  conceivable  circumstances,  have  rejoiced  in 
the  tidings  of  a  fellow-creature's  imminent  death. 
"In  twenty-four  hours'  time,"  she  softly  repeated. 
That  was  the  only  answer  she  made,  or  thought  of 
making.  How  comforting  to  have  the  distance 
between  oneself  and  so  calamitous  a  doom  widen ! 
If  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  insulted  her,  now,  she 
would  hardly  have  minded  it  from  one  who  came 
the  emissary  of  such  courage-bringing  news. 

As  it  was,  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  continued  in  no  con- 
ciliatory tones:  "You  wish  Mrs.  Ottarson  here.  You 
have  a  letter  in  your  hand  which  you  wish  despatched 
to  her." 

"Yes." 

'  At  this  moment  a  knock  was  heard.  Mi's.  S#tter- 
thwaite  turned  and  opened  the  door.  A  servant 
stood  outside,  having  come  in  answer  to  Olivia's 
summons. 

"I  rang,"  Olivia  now  went  on.  "I  wish  this  letter 
sent  immediately  to  the  address  written  on  it."  She 
handed  the  envelope  to  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  who  in 
turn  gave  it  to  the  servant. 

"  Let  it  be  taken  as  quickly  as  possible,"  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite said.  After  the  servant  had  gone  she 
turned  to  Olivia,  reclosing  the  door. 

"  You  see,  your  letter  is  sent.     But  now  that  Mrs. 


238  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Ottarson  is  coming  here,  I  prefer  to  absent  myself  — 
at  least  until  to-morrow.  You  agree,  do  you  not,  to 
stop  here  over  night?" 

"It  ...  it  will  be  so  strange!"  Olivia  answered, 
with  uneasy  hesitancy. 

"  But  it  will  be  best ;  it  will  be  right.  This  is  your 
home  now.  You  will  claim  it  if  he  dies ;  you  must 
not  desert  it  while  he  lives.  .  .  .  And,  Olivia,  bear  in 
mind  that  you  have  contracted  no  secret  marriage.  It 
is  sudden,  hasty ;  but  it  must  promptly  be  published 
to  the  world  for  all  that.  I  will  see  that  it  is  printed 
in  all  the  morning  newspapers.  People  will  talk,  gos- 
sip ;  that  is  to  be  expected.  You  are  a  Van  Rensse- 
laer,  and  no  one  with  your  name  and  position  can  do 
anything  of  this  sort  without  causing  a  perfect  fer- 
ment of  remai'k.  But  we  have  nothing  to  conceal. 
This  is  not  the  first  time  that  such  a  ceremony  as  a 
death-bed  marriage  has  taken  place.  .  .  .  And  now, 
promise  me  that  you  will  preserve  the  propriety  of  the 
thing,  my  dear,  and  spend  the  night  —  as  Mrs.  Spencer 
Delaplaine  should  —  in  the  house  of  your  husband." 

Olivia's  response  was  somewhat  slow  in  coming,  but 
at  length  it  came :  "  Yes,"  she  finally  acquiesced  ;  "  I 
promise." 

"That  is  the  suitable  way  to  speak,  my  dear  —  and 
to  feel,  as  well.  Orders  shall  be  given  the  servants  to 
accommodate  you  perfectly.  They  know  what  has 
happened.  As  for  changes  of  clothing,  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son will,  no  doubt,  capably  assist  you  there.  .  .  .  My 
dear  Olivia,  you  have  only  to  behave  with  discretion 
for  a  few  hours  longer.  Afterward  you  will  be  you 
own  mistress.  You  understand ;  I  am  sure  that  you 
do  understand." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  239 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  the  girl  replied.  "  You  may 
trust  me." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  left  the  house  in  Tenth 
Street  by  the  time  (a  good  hour  later)  that  Mrs.  Ot- 
tarson  arrived  there.  Olivia  received  the  latter  in 
that  same  apartment  which  she  had  entered  and  had 
never  once  quitted  since  leaving  her  funereal  bridal- 
chamber,  not  far  away. 

The  meeting  was,  on  Olivia's  side,  a  passionate  one. 
The  moment  that  she  and  Mrs.  Ottarson  were  to- 
gether, with  a  shut  and  locked  door  between  them- 
selves and  the  outer  hall,  every  sign  of  tranquillity 
died  from  the  girl,  and  she  surrendered  herself  to  an 
outburst  of  tears  and  moans,  while  both  arms  clung 
about  her  aunt's  plumply  accommodating  neck. 

"  I  wrote  you  that  I  was  married  —  married,  Aunt 
Thyrza  !  And  I  am  —  it's  true!  Oh,  I've  so  much  to 
tell  you !  You  don't  know  anything  yet.  It  seems 
now  as  if  I  couldn't  have  done  it  —  as  though  some  one 
else  must  have  done  it,  not  I!  ...  But  do  not  blame 
me  till  you  hear  everything  —  till  you  hear  just  how 
and  why  it  happened." 

"  I  won't,  'Livia,"  replied  Mrs.  Ottarson,  whose  dark 
eyes  were  sparkling  and  whose  mien  denoted  extreme 
perturbation.  "  I  think  I  can  guess  a  good  deal  of  it. 
Those  two  aunts  o'  yours  set  you  up  to  it,  an'  got  him 
to  consent.  That's  'bout  the  size  o'  the  whole  thing, 
I  reckon.  Ain't  it,  now  ?  .  .  .  Don't  cry  so.  ... 
You  ain't  murdered  if  you  are  married." 

"  No,  no ;  you're  wrong,"  cried  Olivia  through  her 
tears.  "He  wanted  it ;  he  asked  me;  his  wish  —  his 
dying  wish  —  has  been  behind  it  all.  ...  I  —  I  pitied 
him,  Aunt  Thyrza,  but  it  wasn't  pity  that  made  me 


240  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

yield.  It  was  something  cold  and  wicked  and  grossly 
selfish  in  me.  Yes,  that  —  only  that !  And  now  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  to  be  punished  for  letting  that  wrong 
impulse  get  the  best  of  me.  They  say  he  is  dying. 
But  he  may  not  die.  And  then  .  .  .  think!  If  he 
should  not  die !  .  .  .  This  never  even  occurred  to  me 
till  afterwai'd.  And  when  it  came  it  froze  my  very 
blood  with  terror.  .  .  .  And  now  it  seems  so  horrible 
that  I  should  be  waiting  his  death  and  wanting  him  to 
die!  It  is  like  one  sin  begetting  another.  .  .  .  And 
yet  I  must  either  hope  that  be  will  die,  or  else  —  No, 
no,  no !  I  haven't  been  bad  enough  to  be  punished 
so  fearfully !  Have  I,  Aunt  Thyrza  ?  It  would  be  too 
cruel,  too  monstrous  —  would  it  not  ?  " 

Olivia  and  Mrs.  Ottarson  stayed  together  in  Dela- 
plaine's  house  that  night.  The  room  they  occupied 
opened  off  from  the  same  hall  as  did  that  of  the  inva- 
lid. Olivia  slept  fitfully ;  Mrs.  Ottarson  scarcely  slept 
at  all.  The  latter  had,  so  to  speak,  fully  grasped  the 
situation.  She  had  sent  for  changes  of  attire  to 
Twenty-Third  Street;  she  had  talked  with  two  or 
three  of  the  servants  who  had  held  converse  with  the 
nurse  on  watch  at  Delaplaine's  bedside.  If  any  dis- 
tinct alteration  took  place  in,  the  condition  of  the  sick 
man  she  was  to  be  informed  of  it.  And  once  or 
twice,  while  the  hours  were  very  small,  she  stole  out 
of  her  own  apartment  and  entered  that  of  Delaplaine, 
meeting  the  nurse  on  its  threshold. 

He  was  very  ill.  There  had  been  no  decisive  turn 
for  worse  or  better  in  his  disease.  This  was  all  that 
she  could  ascertain.  By  about  dawn  she  sank  into  a 
deep,  fatigued  sleep,  and  on  awakening,  she  found 
that  the  sunny  May  morning  was  well  advanced,  and 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  241 

that  Olivia  had  risen,  had  dressed,  and  was  now  mov- 
ing about  their  bed-chamber. 

"I  could  not  sleep,"  said  Olivia;  "I've  been  up 
since  quite  an  early  hour.  I  rang  for  a  servant  and 
inquired  after  Mr.  Delaplaine.  The  answer  was  brought 
back  to  me  that  he  continues  exactly  the  same." 

"Jus'  so,"  mused  Mrs.  Ottarson.  "  I  s'pose  he'll  go 
right  off  'fore  you  can  say  'Jack  Rob'son.'  That's 
the  way  a  good  many  's  old  's  he  is  do  go,  'specially 
when  it's  the  pneumonia.  .  .  .  By  the  bye,  Liv,  did 
the  help  you  saw  say  anything  'bout  our  gettin'  any 
breakfast  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  served  us  whenever  we  want  it,  Aunt 
Thyrza." 

And  not  long  afterward  it  was  most  admirably 
served  them  in  the  dining-room  below  stairs.  What 
a  contrast  between  this  perfect  attendance,  this  gleam- 
ing silver  and  snowy  linen,  these  delicate  dishes  pre- 
pared with  nicest  art,  and  the  haphazard  waiting  of 
Ann  and  Bridget,  the  plated  forks  and  nicked  china, 
and  the  precarious,  not  to  say  untrustworthy  cooking 
by  which  Olivia  had  for  days  past  been  confronted ! 
Two  or  three  of  the  servants  addressed  the  girl  as 
"  Mrs.  Delaplaine,"  and  made  her  cheeks  tingle  as 
they  did  so.  In  the  morning  paper,  which  had  been 
placed  upon  the  breakfast  table,  she  read  the  an- 
nouncement of  her  marriage  thus : 

DELAPLAINE  —  VAN  RENSSELAER.  —  On  Tuesday, 
May — ,  188 — ,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ray  Olmstead,  SPENCER  DELA- 
PLAINE to  OLIVIA  CLINTON,  daughter  of  the  late  Houston 
Clinton  Van  Rensselaer. 

What  a  queer,  impossible  look  it  had !  It  somehow 
recalled  to  her,  in  an  oddly  analogous  way,  a  curious 


242  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

poem  which  she  had  somewhere  seen,  about  a  ghost 
wandering  through  a  graveyard,  stumbling  over  an 
old  grave  and  reading  his  own  epitaph  upon  the  crum- 
bled tombstone.  That  ghost  could  not  have  under- 
gone a  more  amazed  thrill  than  hers  was  on  reading 
those  few  little  lines  of  divulging  print. 

"There  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  except  to  wait," 
Olivia  said,  after  they  had  gone  upstairs  again  and 
entered  the  sitting-room  which  opened  off  from  the 
apartment  in  which  they  had  slept.  "You  will  stay 
with  me  here  to-day,  will  you  not,  Aunt  Thyrza?" 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Ottarson.  It  was 
not  easy  for  her  to  give  even  this  partial  kind  of  con- 
sent, since  no  Ida  Strang  now  held  a  vice-regal  posi- 
tion in  West  Twenty-Third  Street,  and  she  could  not 
look  upon  the  fact  of  her  own  absence  without  visions 
of  dire  domestic  topsyturvy-dom.  "  P'rhaps  I  can  slip 
off  a  little  later,  when  we've  heard  what  the  doctors 
think.  Then  I  can  come  back  later  on  still,  I  guess." 

"  Oh,  do  try,  please,"  begged  Olivia.  "  It  is  so 
dreadful  for  me  to  feel  myself  all  alone  here.  And 
even  if  Aunt  Letitia  and  Aunt  Augusta  do  come, 
there's  somehow  such  a  gulf  between  them  and  me ! " 

"  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson,  with  a  grim  intonation. 
"You  jus'  want  me  to  kind  o'  be  a  bridge  over  the 
gulf,  don't  you?  Well,  Livvy,  that's  all  right,  but 
then  bridges  are  trod  on,  an'  that's  w'at  those  two 
aunts  o'  yours  would  like  to  do  to  me.  Oh,  I  know 
'em.  Well,  we'll  have  to  fix  it  so's  I'm  kep'  out  o' 
their  sight,  like  something  with  too  many  claws  an' 
teeth.  I'm  perfectly  'greeable  to  that,  I  mus*  say." 

Olivia  found  herself  growing  bolder  as  the  day 
lengthened.  She  repeatedly  moved  into  the  outer 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  243 

hall  and  stood  there,  looking  about  at  the  quiet  rich- 
ness of  all  the  appointments.  But  whenever  the  lower 
hall-bell  sounded  she  would  disappear  frightenedly. 
This  bell  began  to  sound  very  frequently,  it  soon 
occurred  to  her.  Sometimes  footsteps  would  pass  her 
closed  door.  These,  as  she  conjectured,  were  physi- 
cians coming  or  departing.  By  and  by  there  was 
brought  her  a  request  from  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite  that  she  would  kindly  join  them  else- 
where. 

"  I  would  much  rather  stay  here  with  you,"  Olivia 
said,  after  she  had  sent  back  an  affirmative  reply. 
"  There  is  nothing  that  I  have  to  say  to  them  except 
the  asking  of  a  single  question.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps 
they  will  know  how  to  answer  it  better  than  the  ser- 
vants. I  suppose  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  has  seen  him." 

" It  may  be  that  he  wants  to  see  you"  ventured 
Mrs.  Ottarson. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not  ...  I  hope  not ! "  exclaimed 
Olivia.  "  Aunt  Thyrza,  I  should  feel  so  miserably 
ashamed  to  stand  beside  him,  having  had  the  —  the 
thoughts  about  him  that  you  know  of.  ...  And  yet 
he  must  have  been  certain,  all  the  while,  of  just  why 
he  prevailed  upon  me.  If  I  had  deceived  him,  my 
sense  of  sinfulness  would  be  ten  times  worse  than  it  is 
now!" 

Not  long  after  this,  Olivia  opened  the  door,  prepar- 
atory to  joining  her  aunts.  But  just  as  her  foot 
touched  the  threshold  of  the  hall  itself,  a  sound  of 
voices  arrested  her.  The  persons  who  were  speaking 
together  could  not  have  been  many  paces  away. 
Every  word  of  what  they  said  came  with  the  greatest 
distinctness  to  her  hearing. 


244  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  It  is  a  very  extraordinary  thing,  Doctor,"  declared 
one  voice. 

"  His  vitality,"  answered  another,  "  is  truly  marvel- 
lous." 

"This  change  in  his  temperature  has  astonished 
me." 

"And  the  marked  abatement  of  congestion  —  that 
is  even  more  unusual." 

"  A  superb  constitution,  Doctor." 

"  Iron,  my  dear  sir  —  iron.  .  .  .  Well,  he  has  lived 
a  most  careful  life.  It  tells  now." 

"Upon  my  word,  I  believe  we  are  going  to  pull 
him  through." 

Then  came  a  laugh,  in  which  both  voices  partici- 
pated. "  He's  going  to  pull  himself  through,"  were 
the  next  words,  in  response  to  those  just  uttered. 
"If  his  pulse  and  respiration  continue  as  they  are  now 
five  or  six  hours  longer,  he'll  throw  the  whole  trouble 
off  as  easily  as  if  he  were  a  boy  of  nineteen." 

Olivia  staggered  back  from  the  half-closed  door. 
She  sank  beside  the  chair  on  which  Mrs.  Ottarson 
was  sitting,  and  hid  her  head  in  that  lady's  lap.  Her 
form  quivered,  as  shudder  after  shudder  passed 
through  it.  Mrs.  Ottarson  was  deeply  alarmed,  but 
presence  of  mind  stood  high  among  her  worthy  traits. 
She  suspected  that  Olivia  had  overheard  something, 
for  she  had  seen  the  girl  pause  in  a  listening  attitude. 
She  stooped  down,  took  Olivia  in  her  arms,  and  rose, 
forcing  the  poor,  cowering  frame  to  rise  also. 

"Now,  'Livia,"  she  began,  as  the  girl's  head  fell 
upon  her  shoulder  and  the  shudders  were  again  mani- 
fest, "this  aint  goin'  to  do  one  bit.  No,  deary,  it  aint. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  245 

"W'atever  you  heard,  it  don't  make  any  difference. 
You've  got  to  brace  up,  an'  not  shame  yourself. 
Come,  now,  w'at  'd  you  hear  out  yonder  in  the  entry  ? 
Let  me  know  right  straight  off  ! " 

Olivia  raised  her  head  and  whispered  these  words 
from  colorless  lips : 

"  I  heard  them  say  that  he  was  going  to  get  well. 
They  were  two  doctors-,  talking  together.  One  of 
them  said  that  if  his  pulse  and  respiration  should  con- 
tinue five  or  six  hours  longer  as  favorable  as  at  pres- 
ent, he  —  he  would  quite  overcome  this  illness." 

Olivia's  eyes  were  as  dry  in  their  light  as  diamonds, 
and  below  them  lay  heavy  curves  of  shadow  that  her 
augmented  pallor  made  mournfully  plain.  A  few 
hours  had  turned  her  bloomful  girlish  face  into  that 
of  a  suffering  woman.  A  desperation  had  come  into 
it  that  clad  all  its  features  with  melancholy  maturity. 
You  felt  that  its  beauty  would  soon  vanish  if  the  pain 
that  was  wearing  at  her  heart  did  not  lessen. 

"  I  guess  I  wouldn't  see  either  of  my  aunts,  if  I  was 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson,  solemnly,  while  Olivia  still 
clung  to  her.  "If  they  come  up  here,  that's  one 
thing.  I  don't  think  they  will,  though  ;  I  guess  I'll 
act  as  a  scarecrow."  And  now  she  permitted  herself 
to  add  a  very  imprudent  thing.  "  I'd  be  one  to  'em, 
sure  enough,  if  they  knew  what  deceit  I  suspect  'em 
both  of  tryin'  to  practise." 

Olivia  sprang  backward.  Her  eyes  flashed.  "Do 
you  mean  that,  Aunt  Thyrza?  Do  you  mean  they  — 
they  knew  all  along  he  would  get  well  ?  " 

"I  mean  they  jus'  played  on  your  belief  he  toowldn? 
get  well.  A  word  from  either  one  of  'em  would  have 
made  you  alter  as  quick  as  wink,  but  they  didn't  say 


246  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

it.  Not  them !  They  wanted  to  get  you  Vay  from 
me  by  hook  or  by  crook  ;  an'  they  wanted  you  to  make 
a  'ristocratic  match  besides,  no  matter  w'ether  it  left 
you  widow  or  wife." 

"True,"  murmured  Olivia,  in  her  shame,  her  wretch- 
edness, her  growing  affright.  The  homely  phraseol- 
ogy of  her  Aunt  Thyrza  threw  fresh  revealing  rays 
upon  all  which  had  passed.  She  had  really  been  but 
a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  two  ambitious  kinswomen. 
She  perceived  this  now,  and  the  realization  kindled  an 
indignant  fire  in  her  young  soul.  She  herself  had 
been  blarnable  enough,  but  their  cunning  had  dealt 
with  her  faultiness  no  less  coolly  than  ignobly. 

An  hour,  two  hours  passed.  Olivia  had  paid  no 
heed  to  Mrs.  Satterthwaite's  request.  At  last,  by 
about  half-past  one  o'clock,  a  second  summons  came 
from  the  same  lady.  Would  Mrs.  Delaplaine  have 
luncheon  served  upstairs,  or  would  she  take  it  down 
in  the  dining-room  with  her  two  aunts? 

Olivia  seemed  to  muse  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
answered  the  servant  that  she  desired  no  luncheon 
whatever,  but  that  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Ottarson,  would  be 
served  upstairs,  here,  in  the  sitting-room. 

The  luncheon  was  sent  up  for  two,  and  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son forced  Olivia  to  swallow  at  least  a  few  mouthfuls 
of  food.  She  did  not  like  the  girl's  glassy  eyes,  her  con- 
tinual startled,  nervous  motions,  and  the  complete  ab- 
sence of  all  color  in  her  vigilant,  strained,  harassed 
countenance.  The  elder  woman  felt  that  all  consolatory 
language  must  fall  ineffective  upon  the  younger  one. 
That  single  irrepressible  dread  had  grown  into  an 
anguish  of  suspense  now,  and  no  power  except  a 
certain  dark  yet  distinct  piece  of  information  could 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAIXE.  247 

alleviate  its  cogency.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Ottarson  had 
misgivings  lest  some  piteous  collapse  might  soon  over- 
whelm Olivia.  She  was  like  a  being  borne  in  a  rud- 
derless and  earless  boat  at  the  mercy  of  a  flood  which 
swept  her  toward  an  inexorable  abyss.  If  the  flood 
itself  would  only  retard  its  menacing  current,  all 
might  still  be  well  with  that  unhappy,  jeopardized 
life.  But  if  not  — !  To  watch  Olivia  as  she  rest- 
lessly, almost  fiercely  waited  what  she  held  to  be  her 
impending  doom,  was  to  comprehend  how  keen  were 
her  spiritual  torments. 

By  about  three  o'clock  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door.  Mrs.  Ottarson  went  herself  and  answered  the 
knock,  this  time.  She  admitted  Mrs.  Satterthwaite, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Auchincloss.  Both  gave  her  a  little 
freezing  bow,  and  passed  her  without  the  least  ap- 
parent concern  as  to  whether  she  returned  it  or  no. 

"My  dear,"  began  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  as  the  two 
ladies  approached  Olivia,  who  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  chamber,  "  since  you  thought  it  best  not  to  come 
to  us  we  have  decided  it  is  best  we  should  come  to 
you." 

Olivia  bowed  her  head.  Both  her  visitors  must 
have  seen  the  striking  pathetic  change  that  had  been 
wrought  in  her  appearance. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  coldly  and  formally,  "you 
have  come  to  tell  me  that  Mr.  Delaplaine  is  ...  recov- 
ering, no  doubt.  I  have  heard  that  he  will  recover. 
Have  I  heard  correctly  ?  " 

The  ladies  looked  at  one  another. 

"  Don't  speak,  please,  Letitia,"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite to  her  sister,  in  a  low,  eager  voice.  "  Let  me 
speak." 


248  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Olivia  caught  the  two  sentences.  "  Pray  do  speak 
at  once,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  to  know  my  fate." 

"You  foolish  girl!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Satterthwaite, 
who  had  become  paler  than  perhaps  she  herself  guessed. 
"  He  is  surprisingly  better.  Yes,  the  doctors  now  say 
that  with  a  little  careful  nursing  his  life  will  be  spared 
to  his  many  friends.  These  will  all  be  so  thankful  for 
this  miracle.  And  why  should  not  you  be  as  well? 
You,  my  child,  who  now  bear  his  name,  and  whom  he 
will  cherish  as  his  wife  with  a  fondness,  an  indulgence, 
that—" 

A  sharp,  harsh  cry  sounded  from  Olivia,  here.  She 
lifted  her  hand  and  clenched  it.  "You  knew — you 
both  knew  —  that  it  might  turn  out  like  this!"  she 
broke  forth,  with  a  voice  of  accusation,  irony,  arid 
despair.  "  You  acted  with  deceit  —  with  cruelty. 
Oh,  you  were  very  diplomatic  —  very  non-committal ! 
There  is  nothing  I  can  charge  you  with  having  said  — 
it  is  what  you  did  not  say  that  now  makes  me  feel  how 
you  have  acted  as  my  tempters  —  my  enemies !  It 
will  kill  me  —  or  I  hope  it  will."  She  swerved  side- 
ways, at  this  moment,  and  both  her  hands  went  to  her 
breast  as  though  she  would  tear  from  it  something 
that  suffocated  her.  .  .  .  Again  she  reeled,  and  by 
this  time  Mrs.  Ottarson  had  darted  toward  her,  past 
those  whom  she  had  thus  heatedly  addressed. 

"  If  I  do  die,"  she  went  on,  with  her  look  still  fas- 
tened on  the  faces  of  her  aunts,  while  she  steadied 
herself,  so  to  speak,  in  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Ottarson, 
"you  —  you  —  both  of  you  two  cold,  heartless  women 
.  .  .  will  .  .  .  have  to  ...  answer  for  my  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  pronounce  the  word  "  death,"  but  as 
her  eyes  closed,  and  her  breath  resolved  itself  into  a 


OLIVIA   LELAPLAINE.  249 

few    short,    resonant    gasps,    this   word    was    faintly 
shaped  by  her  lips. 

And  then  her  form  grew  limp  and  effortless  in  Mrs. 
Ottarson's  clasp.  She  had  swooned,  though  the  fit  of 
unconsciousness  was  not  a  long  one.  But  she  awoke 
from  it  in  delirium.  That  night  her  life,  and  not  the 
life  of  her  husband,  was  in  peril.  He  had  indeed 
already  made  wonderful  strides  toward  convalescence. 
But  with  Olivia  Delaplaine  it  was  just  the  opposite. 
The  physicians  who  watched  her  hourly  expected  an 
acute  cerebral  paralysis,  or,  if  not  that,  a  dementia 
consequent  upon  severe  nervous  shock.  Even  Mrs. 
Ottarson  (who  would  not  have  left  her  if  certain  that 
every  boarder  in  her  establishment  was  to  vacate  it  by 
the  morrow)  had  not  dreamed  of  how  drastic  had 
been  the  tension  laid  upon  her  darling's  unprepared 
brain.  As  it  was,  stifling  her  tears  like  the  brave  soul 
nature  had  fashioned  her,  she  hovered  near  Olivia, 
waiting,  hoping,  silently  praying,  but  never  forgetting 
capably  to  prove  herself  of  service  as  well. 


250  OLIVIA   UELAPLAIXE. 


XIV. 

THE  chronicler  of  the  present  history  must  now 
record  that  more  than  seventeen  months  have  elapsed 
since  Olivia's  illness  terminated,  so  fittingly  yet  so 
gloomily,  the  dramatic  misfortune  of  her  wedding- 
day.  As  the  play-bills  in  the  theatres  will  sometimes 
have  it,  our  scene  changes  from  grave  to  mirthful ; 
and  one  might  readily  concede  that  the  cafe  in  Del- 
monico's,  toward  about  eleven  o'clock  on  a  crisp-aired 
January  evening,  might  supply  all  desirable  elements 
of  mirth. 

The  large,  crowded  room  certainly  looked  gay  in  the 
extreme.  It  was  not  bariole  like  the  lady-haunted 
restaurant  that  faced  on  Fifth  Avenue,  but  its  merri- 
ment of  mingled  voices  compensated  for  the  absence 
of  festal  color.  Nearly  all  the  tables  were  occupied, 
and  at  one  of  these  sat  Jasper  Massereene  and  as 
uncongenial  an  associate  as  young  Aspinwall  Satter- 
thwaite. 

They  had  not  entered  the  cafe  together,  but  had 
met  here  only  a  few  minutes  previously.  Aspinwall 
was  now  in  his  graduating  year  at  Columbia,  and  had 
long  held  his  manhood  to  be  about  as  firmly  planted  a 
fact  in  the  estimation  of  a  large  public  as  the  bluff, 
gallant,  sailor-like  bronze  statue  of  Farragut  just  across 
the  way  at  the  edge  of  Madison  Square.  To-night 
meant  a  gathering  of  the  fashionable  clans,  for  it  was 
to  be  marked  by  the  first  Patriarch's  Ball  of  the  season. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  251 

Aspinwall  would  not  for  the  world  have  missed  airing 
in  the  Delmonioo  rooms  upstairs  his  new  coat  (just 
over  from  London)  with  the  rolling  satin  collar,  his 
white  waistcoat  with  the  gold  buttons,  and  his  new 
cat's-eye  stud  with  the  small  row  of  diamonds  running 
round  it,  of  which  the  young  Duke  of  Dunderhead 
had  condescended  to  say  last  summer  at  one  of  the  New- 
port Casino  balls :  "  By  Jove,  now,  that's  quite  neat, 
isn't  it?"  Aspin wall's  pale,  beardless  face  had  lighted 
up  as  he  strolled  into  the  big,  marble-floored  room, 
wrapped  in  his  sable-lined  overcoat,  and  perceived 
"  Cousin  Jasper."  But  the  spirits  of  Massereene  mo- 
mentarily darkened,  proof  though  their  usual  bright- 
ness rendered  him  against  the  depression  produced  by 
the  ordinary  bore.  Aspinwall  was  in  no  sense  an 
ordinary  bore.  The  years  that  bring  wisdom  to  the 
sophomore  had  in  his  case  only  inflated  with  fresh 
vanities  the  senior.  And  the  worst  of  it  all,  as  Mas- 
sereene may  quickly  have  decided  while  his  young 
relation  flung  off  the  costly  outer  garment  preparatory 
to  sitting  down  at  the  same  table  with  himself,  lay  in 
the  solidity  of  the  worldly  backing  by  which  all  these 
vanities  were  supported.  This  young  Aspinwall  Sat- 
terthwaite  was  a  nonentity,  an  ignoramus,  just  able  to 
acquit  himself  in  his  college  exercises  with  decent 
competency,  and  yet  the  amplitude  of  his  father's 
bank  account  and  the  witchery  of  possessing  a  family 
name  with  a  strong  patrician  aroma  diffused  from  it 
—  here  were  potent  considerations  enough  to  make 
many  a  clever  young  girl,  his  superior  in  a  hundred 
ways,  feel  glad  if  he  would  condescend,  during  the 
progress  of  the  ball  upstairs  this  evening,  to  pause 
even  for  a  few  precious  minutes  at  her  side. 


252  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Alas!  we  speak  with  wonder,  sometimes,  of  the  days 
when  men  like  Moore  and  Sheridan,  provided  they 
chose  to  leave  Grub  Street  and  seek  the  society  of  the 
dandies  elsewhere,  perforce  had  to  cringe  hat  in  hand 
to  my  lord  this  and  my  lord  that,  begging  the  entree 
to  Watier's  in  Bolton  Street,  or  moving  heaven  and 
earth  to  secure  a  card  for  White's.  .  .  .  Well,  the  old 
order  changes,  as  a  poet  of  our  own  century  phrases  it, 
and  yet  .  .  .  does  it  so  radically  change,  after  all  ? 
"  A  man's  house  is  his  castle,"  cries  the  select-souled 
American  of  to-day,  "  and  he  has  a  right  to  ask  whom 
he  pleases  thither."  True ;  but  what  if  the  castle  be 
built  with  too  feudal  an  architectural  touch,  good 
friend,  and  filled  by  an  assemblage  who  are  lords  and 
ladies  in  all  except  the  titles  that  they  would  break 
their  pi'oud,  undemocratic  hearts  to  win  ?  Caste,  unless 
it  be  founded  upon  virtue,  intellect,  or  good-breeding, 
is  the  foulest  fungus  in  a  republican  soil.  And  caste 
that  has  none  of  these  claims  for  its  permission  to 
thrive,  infests  and  infects  the  chief  cities  of  our  land 
at  this  time.  Young  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite  meant 
and  expressed  caste  of  just  this  baleful  character. 
Where  was  the  difference  between  his  actual  heredi- 
tary "position"  and  that  of  some  English,  French, 
German,  or  Austrian  stripling  who  presumes  upon  the 
prestige  his  own  merits  never  earned  him,  and  of  which 
his  follies  might  very  properly  dispossess  him? 

"  We  have  our  dukes  and  marquises  and  earls  here," 
thought  Jasper  Massereene  as  he  looked  at  his  cousin, 
now,  across  the  table  of  the  cafe.  "There  isn't  the 
same  historic  romanticism  about  them ;  their  fields  of 
sway  are  narrower  ;  they  sometimes,  though  not  always, 
exhibit  more  vulgarity  and  less  native  refinement  than 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  253 

their  prototypes  do.  But  their  assumption,  their  mo- 
nopoly, their  implied  arrogance,  is  after  all  nearly  the 
same." 

"You  won't  drink  anything  more,  old  chap  ?n  Aspin- 
\vall  was  meanwhile  saying.  He  had  just  ordered  a 
brandy-and-soda;  he  had  called  for  it  as  a  soda-and- 
brandy,  doubtless  with  some  idea  that  to  reverse  the 
names  of  the  liquids  thus  would  indicate  a  more  Eng- 
lish turn  of  idiom.  He  wanted  above  all  imaginable 
things  to  be  English ;  he  would  rather  have  been 

o  o  * 

undissentingly  thought  that  by  his  set  than  have 
received  from  them  any  honor  their  esteem  could 
devise  for  him.  "I  generally  drink  something  before 
I  go  to  a  big  crush  like  this  ball.  These  affairs  are  so 
brutally  common,  you  know.  People  break  their 
necks  for  tickets.  It  wasn't  so  in  the  old  days,  when 
the  town  wasn't  so  large.  They  hadn't  Patriarch  balls 
at  the  Fourteenth  Street  Delmonico's^  but  they  used 
to  have  Assemblies,  and  then  the  rush  wasn't  half  what 
it  is  now." 

"No,"  said  Massereene  amiably,  "I  suppose  not." 
He  knew  nothing  with  regard  to  the  Fourteenth 
Street  Delmonico's.  He  had  possibly  been  at  Eton 
when  its  dead-and-gone  glories  were  flourishing,  and 
as  oblivious  that  it  existed  as  he  was  conscious  of  the 
old  century-battered  statue  of  Henry  Sixth  in  the 
quadrangle  there,  of  the  sweet,  umbrageous  elms  half 
obscuring  Windsor's  massive  towers  a  few  hundred 
yards  beyond,  and  of  the  keen  perplexity  wrought  by 
Latin  verses  upon  the  undergraduate  mind. 

But  perhaps  there  may  have  been  a  stray  reveller 
among  the  talkative  company  scattered  about  him  this 
evening,  whose  forty  or  fifty  or  even  sixty  years  con- 


254  OLIVIA   DELAFLAINE. 

tained  vivid  reminiscences  of  that  other  demolished 
and  irreparable  structure.  He  may  have  been  as  fine 
a  beau  in  his  day  as  was  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite  to- 
night, while  he  sat  sipping  his  refection  here  in  the 
new  Delmonico's,  and  dreaming  of  the  old.  Memory 
is  a  tyrannous  optimist  on  her  own  ground  of  retro- 
spection. What  colors  she  can  paint  with,  joyous  as 
well  as  sombre !  This  musing  individual  whom  I  take 
the  liberty  of  fancying,  and  who  may  have  had  no  real 
identity  whatever,  would  have  had  to  ask  his  sad  soul 
after  many  a  dead  and  loved  comrade,  many  a  happy 
and  treasured  reunion. 

The  wine  seethed  crisper  in  the  goblet  then  than  it 
did  to-night,  and  the  laughter  of  those  who  quaffed  it 
ransc  with  a  mellower  cadence.  Where  are  those 

o 

noctes  ambrosiance  now?  Where's  Harry  with  his 
wit,  Frank  with  his  sporting-talk,  Louis  with  his  love- 
affairs?  What's  become  of  Johnny,  with  his  princely 
manners,  his  exquisitely  high-bred  face,  his  early  French 
education  that  gave  him  the  least  touch  of  a  charming 
accent  when  he  spoke  English,  and  his  clean,  superb 
fifty  thousand  a  year?  How  the  girls  courted  him, 
how  the  mammas  beamed  on  him,  how  the  men 
gathered  round  him!  Was  ever  a  life  so  radiantly 
fortunate  as  his?  When  he  came  into  the  Four- 
teenth Street  Delmonico's,  after  opera  or  dinner, 
you  would  somehow  always  hear  the  champagne- 
corks  begin  to  pop  not  far  away.  It  seemed  like 
magic,  but  it  was  only  tact;  a  sign,  a  whisper  to 
one  of  the  gar$ons,  and  there  we  all  were,  with  our 
more  economical  whiskey-and-water  spirited  off,  and 
the  topaz  Clicquot  or  Verzenay  glistening  or  simmering 
before  us.  He  was  so  considerate  of  his  friends,  so 


OLIVIA   UELAPLAINE.  255 

debonair,  so  frankly  and  heartily  cordial,  was  Johnny, 
and  withal  such  a  natural  instinctive  aristocrat.  .  .  . 
Only  a  few  years  later  he  was  met  in  Broadway  with 
a  faded  and  rather  vacant  face,  and  with  his  former 
laugh,  though  all  the  sunshine  had  gone  from  it.  He 
had  been  very  ill  somewhere  abroad,  he  said  (alas!  we 
had  heard  of  the  sudden  madness  that  had  struck  him 
down  in  the  midst  of  Parisian  pleasure  far  too  wildly 
chased),  and  they  had  shut  him,  up  for  a  long  time. 
It  was  so  good  to  be  out,  he  added,  looking  round  him 
with  a  dim  flash  of  his  once  lucid  blue  eye  and  a 
glimpse  of  that  bel  air  which  his  mental  ailment  had 
marred  pathetically.  And  not  very  long  after  this  we 
learned  of  his  death,  and  soon  his  relations  were  quar- 
relling about  his  money.  .  .  .  But  others  besides  poor 
Johnny  have  passed  away  into  the  great  shadow  and 
mystery,  though  he  was  the  star  of  them  all !  How 
it  would  teem  with  ghosts,  that  Fourteenth  Street 
Delmonico's,  if  it  had  been  left  standing  as  it  once 
stood,  and  they  had  not  reared  a  huge  upholstery 
store  in  its  place!  I  sometimes  feel  like  taking  my 
hat  off  to  that  upholstery  store  and  thanking  it  for  the 
painful  souvenirs  that  it  spares  me.  It  is  like  an 
immense  merciful  tomb,  hiding  a  multitude  of  buried 
recollections  and  suggestions.  Better  that  ne\v-married 
couples  to-day  should  go  there  and  buy  carpets  and 
furniture  for  the  flats  they  have  just  rented,  while 
they  dream  of  soon-to-be-sought  cradles  and  of  heaven 
knows  what  domestic  felicity  besides,  than  that  middle- 
aged  croakers  like  myself,  or  the  imaginary  ruminator 
whom  I  have  mentioned,  should  dine  and  tipple  once 
more  in  the  haunt  of  those  dear  dead  friends.  Better 
this,  indeed,  than  that  we  should  dance  in  ball-rooms 


256  OLIVIA   VELAPLAISE. 

where  our  springing  step  would  now  seem  a  desecra- 
tion—  as  though  we  literally  danced  on  the  graves 
themselves  of  merry-makers  whose  blithe  feet  once 
kept  time  so  rhythmically  to  our  own! 

No  doubt  most  of  those  who  gave  the  ball  this 
evening  would  have  held  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite's 
anticipatory  remarks  concerning  it  to  be  highly  imper- 
tinenit.  It  was  the  first  large  entertainment  of  a 
public  kind  that  Massereene  had  ever  witnessed  in 
New  York.  He  had  been  travelling  about  the  West 
for  many  months  after  his  return  to  these  shores.  He 
had  wanted  to  see  his  country,  not  the  seaboard, 
metropolitan,  ultra-civilized  portion  of  it.  He  had 
been  everywhere,  as  a  man  may  say  who  has  roamed 
from  St.  Paul  to  New  Orleans  and  from  New  York  or 
Boston  to  San  Francisco.  At  last  he  had  drifted 
eastward  again ;  and  the  Satterthwaites,  knowing  of 
his  return,  had  sent  him  a  card  for  the  present  ball. 

Aspinwall  accompanied  him  upstairs,  and  introduced 
him,  with  a  flourishing  manner  which  he  strongly  dis- 
liked, to  the  ladies  who  "  received  "  in  a  room  not  far 
from  the  main  ball-room.  Massereene  felt  himself  a 
stranger  as  he  passed  the  threshold  of  the  latter  apart- 
ment. But  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  blazing  with  diamonds, 
soon  saw  him  and  called  him  to  her  side.  He  remem- 
bered, then,  that  he  had  engaged  himself  to  dance  the 
cotillon  with  Emmeline,  and  that  he  had  sent  this 
young  lady  a  bouquet  in  testimony  of  the  honor  she 
was  supposed  to  do  him.  But  Emmeline,  who  soon 
paused  near  him  in  the  promenade  that  followed  every 
waltz  or  polka,  had  by  no  means  forgotten  either  his 
engagement  or  his  tribute. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  257 

"  Thanks  so  very  much  for  those  charming  flowers," 
she  said,  stopping  for  a  moment  at  his  side,  while 
three  gallants  who  accompanied  her  opened  their  eyes 
uncivilly  wide  at  him.  .  .  .  And  then  Ernrneline  passed 
on,  and  in  a  little  while  he  saw  Elaine,  attended  with 
an  equal  devotion,  and  not  long  afterward  he  had  said 
to  Mrs.  Satterthwaite : 

"Your  daughters  are  enjoying  themselves,  are  they 
not?  It  is  very  pleasant  to  see  how  happily  their 
faces  beam." 

These  were  commonplace  words,  and  yet  Mrs.  Sat- 
terthwaite turned  smilingly  to  hear  them  because  of 
their  speaker.  Several  other  gentlemen  were  stand- 
ing before  her ;  she  was  one  of  the  matrons  who 
never  missed  being  courteously  attended.  She  was  a 
power  in  society,  and  her  increasing  age  was  for  this 
reason  ignored.  The  men  who  wanted  to  push  their 
way  beset  her  with  their  suavities,  and  the  men  who 
had  already  pushed  their  way  and  who  wanted  to 
remain  in  her  good  graces,  offered,  for  the  most  part, 
a  similar  politeness.  She  never  suffered  from  the  neg- 
lect experienced  by  other  maturer  ladies ;  she  enter- 
tained too  much  for  that.  Besides,  even  if  it  had  not 
been  thoroughly  well-known  that  no  young  gentleman 
could  dine  or  sup  at  the  delectable  Sntterthwaite 
mansion  who  did  not  pay  his  court  to  "mamma,"  she 
possessed  the  esprit  de  salon  which  made  her  at  any 
time  a  vivacious  transient  companion. 

"  Yes,"  she  now  said  to  Massereene,  "  the  girls  are 
having  a  jolly  time.  They  always  do,  I'm  glad  to 
say."  And  then  she  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with 
her  jewelled  fan.  "Come,  now,"  she  wrent  on,  "you 
mustn't  waste  yourself  upon  a  poor  old  woman  like 


258  OLIVIA  DELAPLAIXE. 

me.     You   must  bear  in  mind  that  you  are  a  some- 
body." 

"la  somebody?"  replied  Massereene. 

"Of  course  you  are,"  pursued  Mrs.  Satterthwaite. 
"  The  idea  of  your  not  recognizing  it !  Lots  of  people 
are  dying  to  know  you.  It's  been  whispered  about 
who  you  are" 

"  I'm  the  merest  nobody,  however,"  returned  Mas- 
sereene. 

"  Oh!  are  you?  Well,  they  don't  think  so  here. 
.  .  .  By  the  way,  have  you  met  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Auchincloss?" 

"Not  here  —  yet,"  returned  Massereene. 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  you  dined  there  the  other  day. 
Yes,  I  heard  that  you  did.  It  was  quite  a  large 
dinner,  wasn't  it?  And  Mrs.  Delaplaine,  my  niece, 
was  there,  was  she  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  sit  near  her?" 

"No;  at  some  distance  away." 

"You  were  presented,  however?" 

"  Yes ;  but  we  had  met  before." 

"I  remember  —  in  London.  Do  you  think  her 
handsome?" 

Massereene  gave  a  little  start  at  this  question. 
"  Who  could  fail  to  think  so  ?  "  he  said. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  laughed  in  her  metallic  "society" 
way.  "  I  hope  you  don't  say  that  because  she  is  my 
niece.  You  will  most  probably  see  her  to-night." 

He  did,  a  little  later.  She  was  standing  near  her 
husband;  they  had  just  entered  the  ball-room.  She 
wore  white,  with  a  string  of  large  pearls  about  her 
throat,  and  others  braided  amid  the  vapory  gold  of 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAIXK  259 

her  hair.  A  great  many  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her; 
she  was  the  belle  of  the  Patriarchs'  Ball  that  evening, 
beyond  a  shadow  of  dispute.  She  appeared  to  be 
neither  specially  ignorant  nor  conscious  of  this  fact, 
but  the  complete  repose  of  her  demeanor  may  have 
meant  indifference.  She  held  four  or  five  bouquets  of 
tea-roses  and  lilies-of-the-valley,  bound  together  and 
making  one  immense  cluster.  She  was  more  beautiful 
than  when  we  saw  her  last,  though  the  girlish  delicacy 
of  her  face  had  yielded  to  the  spell  of  a  sweet  expan- 
sion, like  the  candor  of  an  unfolded  flower  after  its 
half-sheathed  bud.  But  at  the  same  time  there  was 
an  expression  on  her  face  which  had  no  concern  with 
its  youth  and  unblemished  bloom.  Perhaps  it  was 
rather  a  fitful  visitation  than  an  actual  expression.  It 
put,  now  and  then,  an  icy  light  into  her  eyes  and  her 
smile;  it  seemed  to  come  and  go  across  her  brow 
darkly,  like  a  shadow ;  it  lived  a  moment  in  the  tenser- 
drawn  lines  of  her  lips;  it  quivered  at  the  edge  of  her 
sensitive  nostril,  or  was  conveyed  in  the  transitory 
droop  of  her  graceful  head.  It  was  intangible,  unde- 
finable,  yet  it  was  there.  Was  it  disappointment, 
unwilling  toleration  of  wrong,  contempt  of  self?  Was 
it  either  of  these,  or  was  it  all  three  subtly  commingled 
and  interblended  ? 

Massereene  had  just  begun  to  ask  his  own  thoughts 
one  or  two  questions  of  that  kind.  Olivia  Delaplaine's 
face  had  fascinated  and  haunted  him.  He  knew  her 
story,  or  a  certain  part  of  it.  Who  did  not  know  ? 
Had  it  not  been  cried  from  the  house-tops?  The 
strangeness  of  her  sudden  marriage  to  a  man  more 
than  twice  her  years  had  caused  the  widest  comment, 
and  her  long  subsequent  illness  had  given  rise  to  many 


2GO  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

peculiar  contradictory  reports.  But  it  had  never  au- 
thentically transpired  that  she  had  married  Spencer 
Delaplaine  with  the  fixed  belief  in  his  immediate 
death.  The  world,  with  all  its  random  uncharitable- 
ness,  had  spared  her  this  distinct  charge.  It  all  came 
to  the  one  result:  she  had  been  excessively  talked 
about,  but  she  had  chosen  a  husband  of  the  highest 
position,  and  neither  gossip  nor  scandal  had  cast  the 
least  injurious  slur  upon  her  own.  After  everything 
was  said,  what  had  she  probably  done?  Married  a 
man  older  than  herself,  answered  the  babblers  in  the 
land,  for  his  money  and  his  station.  But  then  she 
had  had  station  herself ;  she  was  far  better  born  than 
he;  she  came  of  the  oldest  Knickerbocker  lineage. 
Hundreds  of  those  whom  social  notoriety  of  any 
sort  keenly  interests,  were  anxious  to  see  her  and 
know  her.  It  had  got  abroad  that  she  was  to  appear 
in  gay  circles  to-night  at  the  Patriarchs',  for  the  first 
time  since  her  return  from  Europe.  She  had  spent 
last  winter  at  Nice  and  Cannes  and  Monte  Carlo 
with  her  husband,  and  though  they  had  been  home 
ever  since  latter  August,  their  life  had  most  success- 
fully eluded  publicity.  Till  late  October  Mrs.  Dela- 
plaine had  dwelt  in  a  country-seat  on  the  Hudson,  of 
which  her  husband  had  secured  a  long  lease.  For  a 
month  or  so  she  had  been  passing  her  time  most  ob- 
scurely in  West  Tenth  Street,  and  had  not  accepted 
a  single  invitation  until  very  recently,  when  she  had 
appeared  at  a  dinner-party  given  in  her  honor  by  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Archibald  Auchincloss. 

Thus  much  Massereene  and  hosts  of  others  had  read 
concerning  her  in  the  society  columns  of  the  news- 
papers; for  she  had  remained,  as  the  picturesquely- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  261 

wedded  wife  of  so  eminent  a  personage  as  Spencer 
Delaplaine,  just  that  object  of  prying  curiosity  which 
purveyors  of  on  dits  and  canards  are  forever  bent 
upon  jealously  observing.  Massereene  now  went  np 
to  her  and  took  the  hand  which  she  graciously  offered 
him,  with  a  feeling  of  pity  in  his  large,  kindly  heart 
that  she  should  be  so  mercilessly  and  speedily  beset  by 
the  stares  of  the  surrounding  throngs. 

Spencer  Delaplaine,  looking,  in  his  evening-dress,  a 
trifle  older,  but  no  less  elegant  and  distinguished  than 
when  we  saw  him  last,  shook  hands  cordially  with 
Massereene,  whom  he  had  met  a  few  days  ago  at  the 
notable  Anchincloss  dinner.  He  was  clearly  aware  of 
the  attention  that  he  and  his  wife  were  causing,  but 
he  bore  himself  with  a  consummate  seeming  uncon- 
cern of  it.  Tall,  gray,  serene,  faultlessly  gentle- 
manlike, he  stood  beside  Olivia,  presenting  to  her 
loveliness  a  contrast  that  was  of  cruel  violence  if 
one  were  aware  of  the  relationship  between  them. 
Some  of  his  old  friends  asserted  of  him  that  he  bore 
himself,  since  his  marriage,  in  an  austerer  way,  and 
that  he  ostensibly  cared  less  for  either  the  notice  or 
the  esteem  of  his  kind.  Massereene,  who  rarely 
permitted  himself  to  dislike  people  without  cause, 
was  repelled  by  something  in  his  voice,  his  manner, 
his  gestures  and  the  turns  of  his  phrases.  "  Bloodless 
insensibility  to  all  that  is  most  finely  human,"  thought 
the  young  man,  "  was  never  stamped  upon  a  face  with 
greater  emphasis."  And  then  his  eyes  wandered  to 
Olivia.  "What  a  life  he  must  lead  her!"  his  medi- 
tations went  on.  "I  somehow  can't  see  in  her  face  the 
reason  why  she  married  him,  though  his  explains  one 
side  of  the  question  perfectly." 


262  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Massereene  almost  fancied  that  Mrs.  Delaplaine's 
blue  eyes  lit  for  him  in  a  grateful  way  as  he  and  she 
soon  began  conversation.  The  staring,  brief  a  while 
as  she  had  been  called  upon  to  endure  it,  must  have 
proved  extremely  unpleasant.  But  Spencer  Dela- 
plaine's acquaintance  was  too  wide  a  one  for  a  num- 
ber of  the  gentlemen  present  who  desired  the  honor 
of  knowing  his  wife  not  summarily  to  request  that  he 
would  introduce  them.  Olivia's  practical  triumphs 
now  commenced  in  vivid  earnest.  She  had  never 
until  now  felt  what  has  truly  been  called  the  intoxi- 
cation of  the  ball-room  ;  and  where  is  the  woman  with 
brilliant  beauty  and  with  her  years  hardly  counting 
beyond  the  term  of  girlhood  who  ever  stops  to  ask 
herself  whether  this  heady  wine  of  flattery,  admira- 
tion and  enjoyment  that  she  lifts  to  her  lips  be  not, 
after  all,  a  beverage  with  more  sparkle  than  flavor 
and  with  less  cheer  than  enticement?  We,  who  are 
a  little  older  than  Olivia  was  that  night,  we  of  either 
the  beau  sexe  or  its  opposite,  have  grown  to  think 
this  wine  a  poor  and  even  an  acid  vintage.  But  we 
loved  it  once,  and  now  our  palates  are  alone  to  blame. 
And  the  wine  will  always  be  poured  for  some  glad 
lips,  while  other  paler  and  wearier  ones  refuse  it, 
from  satiety,  perhaps  disgust  as  well! 

Olivia  quaffed  it  very  willingly,  surprised  that  the 
draught  should  be  so  agreeable.  She  had  heard  a 
hundred  times  of  the  follies  that  make  the  impetus 
and  stimulus  of  society.  But  the  pretty  speeches 
that  were  now  addressed  to  her  had  no  indication  of 
this  aimless  quality.  Her  wit,  innate  and  nimble,  ex- 
ulted in  placid  contests  which  it  was  now  called  upon 
to  wage.  She  \vas  not  old  enough  to  perceive  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  268 

flippancy  in  such  undertaking,  and  she  was  sensible 
enough  keenly  and  readily  to  discriminate  between 
the  ball-room  bore,  so  ubiquitous  and  so  intolerable, 
and  the  man  of  good  reason,  comparatively  rare  as  he 
may  be,  who  occasionally  drifts  among  Delmoniconian 
gayeties.  Already  she  had  promised  to  dance  the 
German  with  her  cousin,  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite ; 
this  dainty  stripling  had  not  been  quite  sure  whether 
he  had  done  a  discreet  thing  or  no  in  engaging  her  at 
the  Auchincloss  dinner,  of  which  he  had  been  one  of 
the  guests.  Olivia  had  accepted  his  offer,  and  per- 
haps the  most  tasteful  and  expensive  of  the  bouquets 
that  she  carried  had  been  the  one  sent  by  Aspin- 
wall. 

Massereene  watched  her  swiftly-growing  popularity. 
He  saw  that  she  not  only  relished  her  belleship  but 
carried  it  with  an  air  of  facile  security. 

"  She  is  beautiful,"  he  thought;  "and  young.  She 
likes  to  shine,  and  she  deserves  to  shine.  She  is  un- 
happy, and  this  babble  affects  her  like  a  soothing 
elixir.  That  marble  fellow,  her  husband,  is  secretly 
in  love  with  her.  I  am  mightily  mistaken,  or  he  de- 
plores while  he  is  proud  of  the  admiration  that  she 
creates." 

Delaplaine  kept  his  wife  in  sight  with  a  vigilance  to 
justify  this  belief.  Hosts  of  old  friends  waited  to 
shake  hands  with  him,  yet  he  entirely  deserted  his 
former  standard  of  deportment.  He  ceased  to  be 
the  beau  of  yesterday ;  he  sought  no  one ;  his  calm 
eye  observed  but  did  not  solicit. 

At  last,  just  before  supper,  Massereene  seized  a 
chance.  "You  have  been  besieged,"  he  said  to 
Olivia.  "But  have  you  yet  been  asked  to  sup  with 


264  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

any  one  ?  I  hear  that  it  is  the  custom  here,  at  these 
Patriarch  balls,  to  accept  an  escort  to  one  of  the  small 
tables  below,  in  the  supper-room.  Will  you  accept 
me?" 

A  march  was  just  then  struck  up  by  the  orchestra; 
it  meant  the  march  to  supper.  Mr.  J.  Remington 
Todd  had  just  given  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Madison  Lex- 
ington, the  richest  woman  in  the  room,  and  the  ad- 
mitted queen  of  society.  He  led  the  way  to  the 
apartment  below  stairs.  The  rest  of  the  assem- 
blage prepared  to  follow  Mr.  J.  Remington  Todd, 
the  arbiter  of  the  Patriarchs',  the  gentleman  who 
could  by  a  wave  of  his  little  finger  "keep  out"  the 
undesirable  Miss  Smith  or  "push  back"  the  ineligi- 
ble Mr.  Jones.  There  is  always  a  Mr.  J.  Remington 
Todd  in  all  great  cities.  He  is  a  human  expedient 
that  rises  ready  at  the  call  of  social  emergency.  He 
interests  himself  with  lists;  he  decides  who  shall 
cross  the  sacred  patrician  threshold  and  who  shall 
not.  He  is  alert,  evasive,  dexterous,  polite  and  ap- 
propriately frivolous.  He  has  nothing  weightier 
to  do  than  to  make  laws  of  just  this  petty  sort, 
and  in  a  country  which  has  the  republican  right  of 
despising  such  laws,  he  might  have  something  a  great 
deal  wiser  to  do.  Massereene  had  already  heard  of 
Mr.  J.  Remington  Todd.  "  Shall  we  follow  the  Gen- 
eralissimo?" he  said,  offering  his  arm  to  Olivia. 

Olivia  slipped  her  own  arm  into  his.  But  just  as 
she  did  so,  Aspinwall  Satterthwaite  rushed  up. 

*"My  dear  cousin!"  he  exclaimed.  And  then  see- 
ing Massereene,  he  drew  back.  Aspinwall  prided 
himself  upon  being  always  a  gentleman  of  irrever- 
sible breeding  —  among  those  whom  he  considered 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  265 

liis  equals.     "Oh,"  lie   said,  "I   see   you    have   some- 
one else,  Cousin  Olivia." 

"  Come  and  join  us,  won't  you  ?  "  answered  Masser- 
eene,  shortly.  Something  made  him  detest  Aspin- 
Avall  just  then.  He  went  downstairs  with  Mrs. 
Delaplaine.  Aspinwall  followed.  There  was  the 
usual  great  hurry  for  tables.  It  happened  that 
Massereene  and  Olivia  secured  one  at  which  the 
great  Mrs.  Lexington  and  her  professional  kind  of 
escort,  Mr.  Todd,  had  already  seated  themselves. 
It  was  not  in  the  order  of  things  that  these  two 
seats  at  this  particular  table  should  be  thus  occupied. 
Mrs.  Ogden  Van  Wagenen  was  expected ;  she  had 
not  arrived  for  some  reason.  Mrs.  Lexington  looked 
a  storm-cloud  at  Olivia,  and  then  suddenly  grew 
pleasant.  She  recognized  Olivia  as  a  Van  Rensse- 
laer;  she  had  been  a  Van  Twiller  herself;  it  was 
so  delightful,  swiftly  mused  this  great  lady,  to  have 
a  person  of  one's  own  kind  near  one.  She  smiled 
upon  Olivia  and  promptly  began  a  conversation  with 
her.  She  even  condescended  to  introduce  herself  — 
she,  the  magisterial  Mrs.  Lexington,  a  personage 
whom  even  Mrs.  Auchincloss  would  have  paid 
duteous  court  to!  She  spoke  to  Olivia  of  her  father, 
of  her  husband ;  she  was  complaisant,  almost  garru- 
lous. She  had  a  galaxy  of  the  Lexington  diamonds 
strung  about  her  weirdly  thin  neck ;  she  was  a  very 
ugly  woman,  but  she  was  Mrs.  Lexington,  and  so 
people  bowed  down  to  her.  On  her  other  side, 
elbowing  Mr.  Todd,  sat  a  lady  named  Mrs.  Quinby 
Spence.  The  Quinby  Spences,  husband  and  wife,  had 
been  desirous  of  slipping  into  society  for  several  years 
past.  Mrs.  Quinby  Spence,  a  lady  with  sharp,  thin 


266  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

face  and  a  pair  of  nervous  black  eyes,  managed  to 
get  herself  seated  near  the  great  Mrs.  Lexington. 
She  had  contrived  to  whisper  a  word  or  two  in  the 
ear  of  Mr.  Todd.  "  Introduce  me,  please,  won't  you?" 
Mrs.  Quinby  Spence  had  said.  The  Quinby  Spences 
had  feasted  J.  Remington  Todd  again  and  again  in 
their  splendid  house  in  Fifty-Seventh  Street.  But 
Mr.  Todd  now  winced  notwithstanding.  The  Quinby 
Spences  were  "  in,"  but  they  were  not  so  "  in "  that 
they  should  presume  lightly  to  seek  acquaintance- 
ship with  a  potentate  like  Mrs.  Madison  Lexington. 
Still,  "introduce  me,  please,"  had  been  imperative. 
Mr.  Todd,  with  his  bland,  moonlike  face  embar- 
rassedly  aglow,  made  the  presentation.  Mrs.  Quin- 
by Spence,  talking  across  the  solid  shoulder  of  him 
who  had  thus  introduced  her,  said  most  volubly  and 
effusively  to  the  lady  whose  social  cachet  she  desired 
to  obtain  : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Lexington !  It 
gives  me  such  pleasure!  We  have  entertained  so 
many  mutual  friends.  I  am  very  fond  of  entertain- 
ing at  dinner." 

"Really?"  murmured  the  great  Mrs.  Lexington. 

"Yes  —  very  fond.  I  was  thinking  over  our  many 
dinner-parties  the  other  day.  My  husband  and  I 
were  trying  to  recall  just  how  many  we  had  given 
this  winter.  It  may  seem  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lex- 
ington, a  rather  curious  matter  to  think  of  at  all,  but 
we  estimated,  my  husband  and  I,  that  we  had  enter- 
tained, during  the  last  few  months,  almost  a  thousand 
people." 

Mrs.  Quinby  Spence  thought  this  was  all  quite 
proper  to  say.  So  many  of  the  really  select  peo- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  267 

pie  had  been  to  her  dinner-parties !  It  had  indeed 
been  said  of  the  Quinby  Spences  that  they  had  "  dined 
themselves  "  into  society. 

But  the  great  Mrs.  Lexington  did  not  respond. 
She  contented  herself  with  turning  to  her  friend, 
Mr.  Todd,  and  saying  in  a  tenuously  lady-like 
whisper : 

"  Good  heavens !     Does  this  woman  keep  a  hotel  ?  " 

But,  all  the  same,  Mrs.  Quinby  Spence  scored  a 
point  and  succeeded  thenceforth  in  knowing  Mrs. 
Lexington,  and  thus  scaling  the  last  rung  of  that 
social  ladder  which  for  years  she  had  so  assiduously 
climbed. 

Massereene  and  Olivia  were  meanwhile  at  the  same 
table.  Olivia  had  not  yet  learned  the  value  of  social 
grades.  She  did  not  realize  how  much  importance 
had  lain  in  the  civility  of  the  thin,  ugly  woman  who 
had  just  been  polite  to  her. 

Aspinwall,  also,  was  at  that  table.  He  had  begun 
to  be  very  jealous  of  Massereene.  It  had  vividly 
occurred  to  him  that  Olivia  was  the  belle  of  the 
Patriarchs'  Ball  and  he  resented  the  idea  of  being 
"  cut  out "  by  even  so  acknowledged  a  notability  as 
Jasper  Massereene. 

But  meanwhile  Olivia  had  had  another  most  wary 
and  intent  observer.  This  was  her  husband. 


268  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XV. 

OLIVIA  was  from  that  night  a  reigning  success  in 
+h»  fashionable  world.  The  rush  and  whirl  at  first 
pleased  her  unspeakably  ;  they  took  her  so  effectually, 
for  a  time,  out  of  herself.  And  the  relief  of  being 
thus  made  in  a  measure  forgetful,  during  certain  mo- 
ments of  the  day  or  night,  that  she  had  become  the 
wife  of  a  man  whom  she  abhorred,  was  deeply  wel- 
come. This  abhorrence  had  not  been  of  quick  growth 
with  Olivia;  it  had  gradually  spread  itself  through 
her  being  with  a  steadfast,  benumbing  stealthiness 
of  influence.  When  her  long  and  dangerous  illness 
terminated,  she  found  herself  facing  her  fate  with  a 
resignation  that  surprised  her  own  spirit.  Delaplaine 
was  by  this  time  in  his  usual  health.  He  entered  into 
his  new  character  as  the  elderly  husband  of  a  youthful 
bride  with  steps  that  were  so  slow,  cautious  and  dis- 
criminating as  to  awaken  Olivia's  admiration  at  his 
blended  diplomacy  and  kindliness.  She  could  never 
dream  of  loving  him,  but  might  not  the  respect  which 
he  was  in  a  fair  way  of  both  rousing  and  perpetuating 
stand  hereafter  as  at  least  a  decorous  apology  and  sub- 
stitute for  love  ?  He  had  told  her  that  he  was  dying  ; 
but  surely,  she  now  reflected,  he  ^vas  not  culpable  in 
having  failed  to  die.  No  one  had  been  culpable  ex- 
cept her  own  miserable,  wayward  self.  As  soon  as 
she  was  strong  enough  to  see  Mrs.  Auchincloss  and 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  she  sent  for  them,  and  begged  that 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  269 

they  would  pardon  her  hasty,  hysterical  charges.  The 
former  accepted  her  niece's  amends  with  a  grieved 
complaisance,  and  held  it  her  duty  to  show  as  much 
generosity  on  the  occasion  as  the  sad  extent  of  the 
injury  inflicted  would  allow. 

"Do  not  say  another  word  about  what  happened 
then,  my  dear  Olivia,  was  Mrs.  Auchincloss's  highly 
gracious  response.  "Of  course  I  felt  myself  wounded 
by  your  words ;  how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  But  I 
hope  I  am  Christian  enough  to  forgive  them  ! " 

"  Oh,  Letitia,  how  magnificent  you  sometimes  are  ! " 
thought  Mrs.  Satterthwaite ;  but  aloud  she  said  to 
Olivia,  with  her  chin  a  little  in  the  air,  her  eyes  no 
softer  than  if  they  had  been  agates,  and  her  voice 
devoid  of  the  least  sympathetic  ring : 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  my  dear,  naturally.  You  were 
going  to  be  very  ill.  You  didn't  know  what  you 
were  saying.  I  assure  you  I  should  have  come  to 
you,  just  like  this,  whether  you  had  sent  for  me  or 
not." 

Still  later  Olivia  began  to  change  her  opinion  re- 
garding the  part  played  by  her  two  aunts  in  that  little 
mati-imonial  episode.  But  whatever  certainty  of  op- 
posite conclusion  she  may  have  reached,  her  future 
conduct  never  revealed  it  to  either  lady.  They  had 
long  ago  taken  the  color  of  their  environing  world  as 
a  partridge  takes  that  of  its  furrow.  And  it  was  a 
world  so  full  of  falsities  and  treacheries,  of  sham, 
meanness  and  misrepresentation,  that  one  must  either 
accept  it  as  one  found  it  or  leave  it  to  its  own  less 
critical  denizens.  To  try  and  improve  upon  its  con- 
glomeration of  follies  and  misdoings  would  be  indeed 
to  try  and  bail  out  the  sea  ! 


270  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

But  just  now  Olivia  had  not  such  condemning 
thoughts  about  society.  It  acted  like  a  lulling  drug 
upon  her  tormented  life.  Delaplaine  had  begun  woo- 
ingly  and  suavely,  but  he  had  soon  dropped  his  mask. 
Beneath  it  was  the  face  of  a  tyrant.  Olivia  had  just 
made  up  her  mind  that  to  endure  him  as  a  husband 
would  not  be  the  misery  she  had  anticipated,  when  he 
suddenly  appeared  before  her  in  a  new  light.  Her 
health,  at  this  period,  was  thoroughly  restored.  They 
were  about  to  visit  Europe  together ;  the  season  was 
latter  autumn.  One  day  he  entered  her  private  sit- 
ting-room and  found  her  in  converse  with  Mrs.  Ottar- 
son,  whose  devotion  during  her  sickness  had  been  un- 
paralleled in  its  noble  self-surrender.  He  had  never 
thus  far  shown  the  slightest  rudeness  toward  Mrs. 
Ottarson,  though  he  had  more  than  once  made  it  clear 
to  his  wife  that  she  was  not  by  any  means  an  object  of 
his  liking.  Moreover,  he  had  paid  respect,  or  some- 
thing which  resembled  it,  to  Olivia's  loyal  and  loving 
gratitude  for  all  that  she  now  felt  she  owed  her  aunt. 
But  to-day  his  manner  was  brusque  and  curt.  After 
Mrs.  Ottarson  had  departed,  he  said,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  with  that  assertion  of  command  for  which 
the  future  had  so  many  relentless  examples  in  store  :  — 

"  I  must  tell  you,  quite  candidly,  that  she  sets  my 
teeth  on  edge,  that  woman." 

Olivia  turned  pale.  "Aunt  Thyrza?"  she  faltei-ed, 
feeling  as  if  an  abrupt  knife-stab  had  entered  her 
flesh. 

"Yes,  she  is  insupportable.  I  hope  you  mean  to 
drop  her  as  soon  as  you  can.  She  has  been  very  good 
as  a  nurse.  But  you  are  now  quite  strong  again.  If 
she  had  been  your  hired  nurse  you  would  not  have 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  271 

done  more  than  give  her  a  handsome  salary.  I  am 
very  willing  that  you  should  do  that  now.  You  have 
your  allowance ;  it  ought  to  be  equal  to  rewarding  her 
services  in  a  very  nice  way.  But  if  it  isn't,  draw 
upon  me  for  any  reasonable  sum  —  or  any  unreason- 
able one,  providing  your  sentiment  toward  the  lady 
makes  you  think  she  deserves  notable  recompense. 
Only,  I  cannot  have  her  continuing  to  come  here  and 
wake  the  echoes  with  her  frightful  sins  against  gram- 
mar and  breeding." 

Olivia  did  not  reply  for  several  minutes.  Then  she 
said,  measuring  each  word:  "I  think  you  misunder- 
stand Aunt  Thyrza.  She  would  never  accept  a  dollar 
from  me.  She  would  regard  it  as  an  insult  if  I  offered 
her  the  least  payment."  After  this  the  young  wife's 
voice  broke  a  little,  and  she  went  on,  using  the  name 
which  he  had  asked  her  to  call  him  by,  and  which  he 
had  told  her  that  it  was  most  pleasant  music  to  hear 
from  her  lips :  "  It  seems  as  if  something  had  offended 
or  annoyed  you  this  afternoon,  Spencer.  I  hope  that 
I  am  not  to  blame  for  —  " 

He  cut  her  short  with  a  little  impatient  toss  of  the 
head.  "One  thing  has  offended  and  annoyed  me  — 
that  woman's  ridiculous  intimacy  with  you.  If  she 
were  a  man  I  should  call  her  a  rowdy.  It  occurs  to 
me,  Olivia,  that  you  should  rate  your  position,  both 
as  your  father's  daughter  and  as  my  wife,  something 
less  cheaply  than  you  do." 

He  at  once  left  the  room  after  having  pronounced 
these  few  piercing  sentences.  To  Olivia  they  meant 
the  infliction  of  a  wholly  unforeseen  terror.  For  sev- 
eral weeks  past  she  had  been  assuring  herself  that 
their  existence  in  each  other's  company  was  to  prove 


272  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

one  of  the  most  unruffled  serenity.  The  mockery  of 
their  union  must  inexorably  remain.  He  was  not  the 
husband  of  her  heart,  and  she  must  forever  hide  from 
him  spiritual  depths  of  which  his  inevitable  non-pos- 
session would  forbid  all  sweeter  and  holier  conditions 
of  intimacy.  But  at  least  he  was  going  to  show  him- 
self the  gentleman  and  not  the  jailer,  the  indulgent 
guardian  and  not  the  surly  sentinel.  Apart  from  the 
combined  farce  and  sadness  of  their  bonds,  they  were 
no  doubt  destined  to  become  excellent  friends.  Every 
new  week  repeated  the  comforting  disappointment. 
Then  there  were  jewels  given  her,  and  other  costly 
gifts  as  well.  No  bride  of  her  years  could  fail  to  be 
touched  by  these  and  like  attentions.  Love  might  lie 
as  dormant  as  it  pleased,  with  torch  unlit  and  chaplet 
unbraided  ;  but  if  friendship  were  going  to  steal  in  with 
sweet  puritan  face  and  a  frank  willingness  to  keep  the 
hearthstone  always  ruddy  through  chill  weather,  why 
the  days  might  not  lag  so  sluggishly,  after  all. 

Olivia  had  in  truth  made  a  little  hopeful  picture  of 
her  own  future.  Delaplaine  and  she  were  the  two 
chief  figures,  of  course.  As  he  would  become  gradu- 
ally enfeebled  by  the  multiplication  of  years,  leaving 
her  still  strong  and  young,  she  would  assume  toward 
him  a  more  and  more  aidful  and  tributary  place. 
Herein  should  be  the  working  out  of  her  expiation  — 
the  practical  fulfilment  of  her  repentance.  She  would 
do  all  that  lay  in  her  power  to  make  Spencer  Dela- 
plaine bless  their  marriage.  Her  act  of  selfishness 
should  be  caused  to  bear  sacrificial  fruit.  When  the 
hour  came  that  really  laid  him  upon  his  death-bed  — 
not  upon  that  semblance  of  one  which  had  formed  her 
past  reason  for  wedding  him  —  perhaps  he  would  take 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAIXi:.  273 

her  hand  and  tell  her  that  she  had  been  a  worthy  wife 
Such  she  meant  to  be,  and  she  now  constantly  thanked 
God  that  the  difficulty  of  attaining  this  desired  object 
would  not  prove  insuperable. 

Abruptly  the  change  in  her  husband  shattered  aspi- 
ration. He  was  never  the  same  to  her  from  that 
afternoon  when  he  showed  her  his  unmantled  self. 
The  passion  she  had  inspired  in  him  had  not  ceased, 
but  its  primary  fervors  were  diminished.  Possibly 
the  sharp  line  of  division  between  what  he  had  been 
and  what  he  was  henceforth  to  be,  drew  its  extreme 
emphasis  from  a  single  manifestation  of  her  own. 
She  refused  to  obey  him  in  the  matter  of  slighting 
her  Aunt  Thyrza,  and  most  assertively  told  him  so. 

"  You  spoke  not  long  ago,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
with  a  courage  in  her  glance  that  did  not  for  a  second 
flinch,  "of  my  position  as  my  father's  daughter  and  as 
your  wife.  I  love  poor  papa's  memory  so  dearly  that 
I  could  not  dream  of  shaming  it.  If  you  think  I  owe 
you  the  concession  of  discontinuing  to  know  one  who 
is  bound  to  me  by  the  sweetest  and  strongest  ties  both 
of  blood  and  gratitude  —  one  I  love  and  respect  as  a 
woman  whose  great,  benevolent  heart  deserves  that  I 
should  do  —  then  I  must  point  out  your  very  serious 
mistake." 

He  started  a  little,  but  that  was  all.  "  You  mean,  I 
suppose,  that  you  will  not  drop  Mrs.  Ottarson?"  he 
said,  with  immobility.  "  She  is  an  irritating  vul- 
garian, but  you  persist  in  keeping  her  up  against  my 
will?" 

"  She  is  the  dearest  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and 
I  shall  always  treat  her  as  the  friend  I  believe  hei\" 

Olivia  was  prepared  to  have  him  reply  with  fierce 


274  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

anger,  now ;  but  she  had  not  yet  followed  his  imper- 
turbable methods.  The  tenderness  he  had  thus  far 
disclosed  to  her  had  been  of  about  the  same  depth  as 
those  brittle  and  curly  woofs  of  lichen  that  we  some- 
times find  on  rocks.  She  was  too  wofully  destined  to 
strike  against  the  obdurate  silicate  that  lay  below! 

"I  perceive,"  he  said,  with  his  gray  eyes  fixed  on 
her  face.  "In  spite  of  any  orders  of  mine  to  the  con- 
trary, you  will  have  this  person  visit  you  here  at  my 
house." 

"No,"  said  Olivia.  "It  is  your  house.  I  would 
not  allow  Aunt  Thyrza  to  enter  it  against  your 
wishes.  Possibly  you  don't  realize  or  care  to  realize, 
how  much  she  would  scorn  to  do  so." 

"Ah  .  .  .  yes.  ...  It  will  merely  be  a  series  of 
visits  on  your  part  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  But  suppose  I  forbid  you  to  go  there  at  all." 

Olivia  firmly  shook  her  head.  "I  shall  not  hesitate 
to  go,  all  the  same,"  she  answered. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  icily.  "  Does 
this  not  seem  to  you  a  rather  bold  measure?" 

"Not  bolder  than  is  justifiable  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

He  gave  her  no  answer.  For  hours  afterward  she 
felt  like  one  who  has  been  remorselessly  duped.  He 
was  a  man  of  stone ;  she  had  thought  him  so,  or  very 
nearly  so,  before  their  marriage,  and  now  the  remem- 
brance of  this  old  conviction  tauntingly  returned  to 
her.  .  .  . 

He  proffered  no  further  mention  of  Mrs.  Ottarson. 
But  almost  every  succeeding  day  showed  her  new 
exasperating  points  in  his  loveless  and  cynical  dispo- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  275 

sition.  He  soon  made  up  his  mind  that  there  was  a 
point  with  her  where  his  coercion  must  stop.  Some 
women  would  have  had  physical  fear  of  him,  if  none 
other.  Olivia  was  so  brave,  so  dauntless  in  her  deal- 
ings with  him,  that  he  admired  her  secretly  all  the 
more  on  this  account.  Still,  it  would  never  do,  he 
had  assured  himself,  to  go  on  with  that  honeymoon 
pose.  He  had  begun  to  feel  acutely  bored  by  the 
necessity  of  maintaining  it,  and  he  had  concluded  that 
it  had  best  be  abolished  forthwith.  Let  Olivia  see 
him  once  and  for  all  as  he  was ;  she  might  as  well  get 
used  to  him,  if  she  were  ever  going  to  be  as  accommo- 
dating as  that ;  she  would  doubtless  have  a  good  deal 
of  his  society  during  the  next  few  years,  to  judge  by 
the  proofs  of  bodily  toughness  which  he  had  given 
the  physicians  not  long  ago. 

They  sailed  for  Europe  a  short  time  afterward. 
Olivia  greeted  the  event  as  a  source  of  precious  dis- 
traction, just  as  she  was  greeting  the  turmoil  of  New 
York  merriments  now,  a  year  later.  Adrian  Etherege, 
the  handsome  young  secretary  of  Delaplaine,  surprised 
Olivia  by  saying  to  her,  a  few  days  before  her  depart- 
ure took  place : 

"It  would  give  me  such  delight,  Mrs.  Delaplaine,  if 
I  could  only  go  with  you! " 

"Go  with  us,  Adrian?"  she  repeated.  She  had 
always  called  him  "  Adrian."  It  had  appeared  quite 
natural  for  her  to  call  him  so  on  taking  her  rightful 
place  as  feminine  head  of  the  establishment.  Occa- 
sionally her  husband  would  permit  the  lad  to  dine 
with  them,  and  once  or  twice  he  had  done  so  at  his 
wife's  request.  Adrian  came  and  went  in  a  most 
irregular  style ;  it  seemed  an  accepted  fact  in  the 


'216  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

household  that  he  should  be  exempt  from  all  rules  of 
punctuality  and  exactitude.  Now  and  then  he  would 
sleep  away  from  the  house  in  West  Tenth  Street,  and 
perhaps  not  even  return  thither  on  the  following  clay. 
But  no  one  showed  the  least  concern  regarding  such 
absences,  and  it  was  only  necessary  to  look  with  close- 
ness into  his  fair,  star-eyed,  poetic  face  for  the  least 
suspicion  that  he  was  of  dissipated  habits  to  vanish 
completely.  His  manner  toward  Olivia  had  been  one 
full  of  exquisite  politeness  ever  since  they  had  first 
met  after  the  protracted  illness  of  the  latter.  J^t 
times  it  struck  her  that  he  might  be  desirous  of  oblit- 
erating from  her  memory  all  retention  of  the  curiously 
angry  look  she  had  once  seen  him  give  her.  What 
Olivia  knew  about  Adrian  Etherege's  personal  history 
and  antecedents  the  youth  himself  had  told  her. 
Delaplaine  had  thus  far  not  done  more  than  say  in 
his  wife's  hearing : 

"Adrian  is  a  good  boy,  honest-minded  and  wholly 
trustworthy.  .  .  ."  On  one  occasion,  just  after  the 
first  dinner  that  the  young  secretary  had  taken  with 
them,  Olivia  had  the  fancy  that  some  further  informa- 
tion concerning  Adrian  was  to  be  given  her  by  his 
employer.  But  although  Delaplaine  then  seemed  on 
the  point  of  volunteering  a  statement,  he  refrained 
from  doing  so,  and  she  did  not  press  him  for  disclos- 
ures, feeling  sure  that  they  would  be  afforded  by 
other  lips. 

And  they  were.  Adrian  fell  into  the  fashion  of 
holding  little  talks  with  her  when  he  and  she  met, 
in  halls,  on  stairways,  or  perhaps  in  the  library,  to 
which  he  was  allowed  free  access.  He  pleased  Olivia 
indescribably.  It  was  not  merely  his  beauty  that 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  Til 

attracted  her;  it  was  a  winsomeness  half  melancholy 
half  joyous.  He  affected  her  as  an  individuality  that 
Nature  had  shaped  for  the  freest  acceptance  of  all 
life's  yellowest  and  richest  sunshine,  but  over  whom 
circumstance  had  drawn  a  kind  of  shadowy  veil.  She 
had  no  more  thought  of  being  touched  by  him  into  an 
attachment  beyond  friendly  interest  than  if  his  years 
had  numbered  fifteen  instead  of  twenty.  This  very 
concern  which  he  had  aroused  in  her  made  her  ques- 
tion him  about  his  past.  She  wanted,  naturally 
enough,  to  learn  whence  he  had  managed  to  derive 
his  charming  manners.  And  at  length  he  had  made 
her  acquainted  with  a  little  history  which  she  did  not 
dream  of  doubting.  Why  should  she  so  have  dreamed? 
He  gave  it,  finally,  with  an  air  of  veracity  and  sim- 
plicity that  his  lovely  brown  eyes  and  his  almost  ideal 
countenance  gently  seemed  to  corroborate. 

A  long  time  ago,  he  told  her,  when  he  was  a  small 
fellow,  Mr.  Delaplaine  had  known  his  father  favorably 
as  one  of  the  bank-employees.  His  father  had  died 
suddenly,  and  he,  an  orphan,  had  been  recommended 
to  the  charity  of  the  wealthy,  powerful  banker.  Mr. 
Delaplaine  had  been  very  good,  giving  him  the  advan- 
tage of  a  long  term  of  schooling,  and  then  permitting 
him  to  enter  the  banking-house  in  a  minor  capacity. 
Afterward  the  secretaryship  had  grown  from  that. 
There  was  really  nothing  more  to  narrate.  The 
school  had  been  a  good  one  —  a  boarding-school  not 
far  away  from  town  —  at  Fordham,  in  fact.  If  Mrs. 
Delaplaine  was  kind  enough  to  think  that  he  had 
fairly  cultivated  manners,  this  complimentary  opinion 
could  only  be  explained  by  the  careful,  refined  course 
of  instruction  pursued  at  the  suburban  school. 


278  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Olivia  unhesitatingly  credited  all  this.  Her  heart 
had  so  warmed  toward  Adrian  Etherege  by  the  time 
he  made  his  direct  appeal  to  accompany  herself  and 
Delaplaine  abroad,  that  she  promptly  looked  upon 
such  a  project  with  entire  acquiescence. 

But  her  husband  instantly  frowned  upon  it.  His 
frown  was  one  of  unusual  sternness,  considering  his 
ordinary  composure.  "  Have  you  lost  your  senses?" 
he  asked,  after  she  had  mentioned  to  him  the  wish  of 
Adrian.  "  I  should  think  you  might  see  the  insanity 
of  such  an  idea." 

"  Insanity  !  "  murmured  Olivia. 

"Certainly."  Delaplaine  had  no  reservations  from 
her  now.  He  had  cast  off  all  disguises  in  unrelenting 
earnest.  "An  old  fellow  like  me  and  a  good-looking 
youngster  like  that !  I'd  be  a  fine  fool  to  let  the  world 
talk.  No,  thank  you ! " 

Olivia's  face  crimsoned,  and  her  eyes  kindled.  "  You 
can't  imagine  —  "  she  began. 

"Imagine?"  he  broke  in,  with  a  hint  of  scoff  in  his 
tones.  "  Of  course  I  don't.  I'm  not  troubled  with 
imagination,  anyway.  I'm  what  they  call  an  exact 
thinker.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  afraid  you  care  for  the 
boy?  If  I  did  I'd  send  him  packing  in  no  time.  Be- 
sides, you  couldn't  care.  He's  not  in  your  line.  I 
know  what  might  be.  He  isn't.  You'd  never  fall  in 
love  with  — " 

"  Stop  ! "  cried  Olivia.  "  You  insult  me  as  your 
wife!" 

He  gave  a  short,  dry  laugh.  "Do  I?"  he  retorted. 
"Oh,  no,  I  don't.  I  merely  show  you  how  I  might. 
You  would  feel  insulted  all  the  same  if  you  were  fond 
of  poor  young  Adrian.  Women  are  never  so  finely 


OLIVIA  DELAPLA1NE.  279 

innocent  in  their  assumptions  as  when  they're  guilty. 
.  .  .  We  won't  take  the  boy  to  Europe,  however.  I 
know  it's  not  a  matter  of  much  moment  with  you 
whether  we  do  or  not.  I  keep  a  closer  eye  on  you 
than  you  perhaps  fancy  I  keep.  There  may  come  a 
time  when  you  won't  be  altogether  .  .  .  indifferent. 
Possibly  that  time  must  come,  as  affairs  are  situated. 
But  when  it  does,  don't  flatter  yourself  that  I  shall  be 
fooled  for  more  than  a  week.  The  chances  are  that  I 
shall  be  even  wiser  from  the  very  beginning  than  you 
are." 

He  left  her,  after  having  spoken  these  words  with 
what  she  held  to  be  an  infernal  coolness,  and  he  left 
her,  also,  rankling  under  the  infliction  of  what  she 
rightly  held  to  be  a  brutality.  But  she  was  yet  in  her 
apprenticeship  as  regarded  the  full  perception  of  just 
how  satanically  insolent  he  could  show  himself.  It 
may  readily  be  surmised  that  he  behaved  without 
provocation  during  conferences  of  this  sort.  He  freely 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  did.  He  was  the  kind  of 
man  who  would  have  been  execrable  in  all  domestic 
relations,  even  if  he  had  married  twenty  years  younger 
than  at  present.  The  world  had  been  easy  enough  for 
him  to  get  on  with.  Its  points  of  tangency,  so  to 
speak,  were  not  at  all  like  connubial  ones.  A  very  ill- 
natured  bear  in  his  home-circle  may  be  a  popular  com- 
panion at  the  clubs.  Delaplaine  could  never  have  been 
called  popular  anywhere,  nor  was  he  at  any  time  a  bear ; 
for  in  allowing  him  such  a  definition  as  the  last,  you 
would  lose  sight  of  his  refined  rather  than  blunt  modes 
of  torment,  his  premeditated  rather  than  impulsive 
cruelty.  "If  I  had  married  an  angel  from  heaven," 
he  had  said  to  himself  not  long  before  the  conversation 


280  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

just  recorded,  "  I  should  Lave  found  it  impossible  to 
get  on  with  her  unless  we  sometimes  quarrelled.  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  to  get  up  a  quar- 
rel. I  think  I  might  have  picked  the  feathers  out  of 
her  wings  while  she  was  asleep." 

They  went  to  Europe,  leaving  Adrian  at  home.  He 
had  grown  singularly  sad,  Olivia  observed,  during  the 
days  that  immediately  preceded  their  departure.  She 
wondered  whether  affection  for  Delaplaine  could  pos- 
sibly explain  his  altered  spirits ;  it  seemed  incredible 
that  this  should  be  the  case. 

"  You  would  like  so  very  much  to  go  to  Europe  ? " 
she  said  one  day,  a  little  while  before  they  sailed. 

"Ah,  how  I  should  enjoy  it! "  he  exclaimed,  a  light 
seeming  to  pass  across  his  face  and  then  vanish. 

"  But  some  day  you  will  go,"  said  Olivia. 

"  Some  day !     Yes  —  alone !  " 

"Alone?"  she  echoed,  surprisedly.  "  Why  do  you 
so  dread  going  that  way,  Adrian?" 

And  then  she  saw  that  he  had  colored  deeply. 
Thinking  his  embarrassment  might  have  sprung  from 
a  betrayal  of  the  regard  which  he  bore  his  benefactor, 
she  at  once  said,  with  the  hope  of  putting  him  at  his 
ease : 

"But  of  course  you  would  rejoice  in  the  companion- 
ship of  one  whom  you  have  known  so  long  and  so 
intimately  as  you  have  known  Mr.  Delaplaine.  It  is 
always  a  pleasure  to  travel  with  those  of  whom  we 
are  fond." 

"  Fond  of  him  —  J/" 

The  words  leapt  impetuously  from  his  lips.  Olivia 
saw,  hurrying  over  his  face  and  darkening  it,  the  same 
fiercely  irate  expression  witnessed  there  at  a  previous 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE,  281 

time.  It  amazed  her  that  such  specks  of  flame  could 
swirn,  however  momentarily,  in  the  tawny  shadow  of 
those  peaceful  eyes. 

"You  dorit  like  Mr.  Delaplaine,  then?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

He  burst  into  the  most  awkwardly  contrite  little 
laugh.  "I  —  I  didn't  say  that,"  he  stammered.  " I 
like  him?  Why,  how  could  it  be  otherwise  after  all 
that  he  has  done  for  me?  Of  course  I  like  him." 
And  then  there  was  another  apologetic  laugh,  lamer 
than  that  which  had  preceded  it.  "I  —  I  was  merely 
a — a  trifle  surprised  that  —  that  you  should  be  in 
doubt  of  how  I  really  felt." 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  in  doubt,"  answered  Olivia. 

But  from  that  time  she  became  confident  of  Adrian's 
keen  yet  smothered  aversion.  This  knowledge  made 
her  somehow  set  greater  value  upon  the  youth's  evi- 
dent regard  for  her;  it  forged  a  new  link  of  congeni- 
ality between  them.  As  for  her  husband's  recent 
words,  they  wore  dyes  of  deeper  insult  as  she  recalled 
their  unprovoked  acerbity.  .  .  . 

Two  days  before  they  took  the  steamer  for  Havre, 
an  event  occurred  which  caused  her  to  wonder  in  an 
oddly  perplexed  way.  She  had  gone  to  make  a  few 
purchases  in  the  morning  and  to  speak  a  loving  fare- 
well in  the  ear  of  her  inalienable  friend,  Mrs.  Ottarson. 
She  returned  at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  passed  upstairs  toward  her  own  apartments.  But 
just  as  she  neared  the  library,  a  loud,  clear  voice, 
plainly  that  of  a  woman,  sounded  from  behind  the 
closed  door  of  that  particular  room. 

"I  don't  want  to  have  him  kicked  into  a  hole,  like  a 
dog,"  cried  the  voice,  "  when  I'm  dead  and  gone." 


282  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"Who  cares  what  you  want?"  came  the  answer, 
loud  as  well,  and  most  uncharacteristically  so,  since  the 
new  speaker  was  beyond  dispute  Delnplaine.  "  You 
had  no  right  to  come  here.  You  must  go  at  once. 
And  don't  ever  presume  to  come  again." 

Before  Olivia  had  more  than  just  slipped  by  the  door 
of  the  library,  it  was  flung  open,  and  a  woman  crossed 
its  threshold.  The  woman  saw  her  as  she  receded,  but 
Olivia  caught  only  the  least  glimpse  of  a  pale,  rather 
careworn  face,  lit  by  dark  eyes  that  were  now  as  rayless 
as  they  might  once  have  been  radiant. 

Then  Delaplaine  himself  appeared,  as  white  as  he 
had  looked  on  the  day  he  was  believed  to  be  dying. 
"  Let  this  be  the  last  time,  now ! "  he  cried.  "  It's  no 

place  for  you,  and  by ,  if  you  forget  that  again, 

I'll  — ." 

The  woman,  who  stood  then  on  the  upper  landing 
of  the  stairs,  pointed  with  a  sudden  gesture  and  a  slight 
laugh  of  mockery  toward  Olivia. 

Delaplaine  turned,  saw  his  wife,  motionless  and 
astonished  a  yard  or  two  beyond,  and  gave  a  terrible 
start.  The  woman  hastened  downstairs,  while  Dela- 
plaine, more  discomfited  in  manner  and  speech  than 
Olivia  would  have  thought  it  possible  for  him  to  be, 
stammeringly  began  some  sort  of  explanation. 

"  She  is  —  one  —  one  of  those  —  those  beggars  who 
bother  me  at  times  for  money.  They  —  they  come  to 
you  with  all  —  all  sorts  of  tales.  A  person  has  to  be 
very — very  careful,  or  he  runs  the  chance  of  getting 
swindled  horridly  by  them." 

The  next  moment  he  passed  back  into  the  library. 
Olivia  slowly  walked  on  toward  her  own  suite  of 
chambers.  Perhaps  Delaplaine  had  spoken  the  truth, 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  283 

and  it  was  some  beggar,  who  referred  to  husband,  son, 
or  brother  while  saying  that  she  did  not  wish  to  see 
him  kicked  into  a  hole,  like  a  dog,  after  she  was  dead 
and  gone.  But  then  Spencer  Delaplaine's  unquestion- 
able agitation  .  .  .  why  should  that  have  shown 
itself  ? 

"  Surely,"  thought  Olivia,  while  her  maid  was  reliev- 
ing her  of  bonnet  and  wraps,  "  if  the  woman  had  been 
one  whose  presence  here  should  bring  shame  on  him, 
he  need  not  have  felt  the  slightest  concern  on  my 
account.  And  as  for  his  really  feeling  any,  it  doesn't 
at  all  correspond  with  his  present  perfectly  undisguised 
brutalities  .  .  .  tout  au  contraire" 

The  traits  that  she  thus  uncompromisingly  de- 
scribed underwent  no  diminution  after  she  and  Dela- 
plaine  sailed  for  European  shores.  "  I  like  Paris,"  he 
said  to  her  one  day  during  the  early  part  of  their 
sojourn  in  that  city.  "It  is  so  exquisitely  filthy 
here." 

"Paris  is  generally  thought  to  be  a  very  clean  city," 
said  Olivia,  quite  misunderstanding. 

He  laughed  his  raucous  little  laugh,  and  leaned 
backed  in  his  chair.  "Oh,  I  don't  mean  her  streets; 
I  mean  her  morals.  Almost  every  other  civilized 
nation  of  the  globe  has  been  piling  abuse  on  France 
for  centuries,  and  yet  we've  all  such  a  secret  delight 
in  her.  It's  too  amusing.  Whenever  I  see  one  of 
these  highly  proper  Americans  or  Englishmen  who 
shudder  at  what  he  calls  her 'nastiness' in  painting, 
novel-writing  or  the  drama,  I  always  feel  like  sending 
a  note  to  that  fellow's  wife  —  anonymous,  of  course  — 
telling  her  to  have  him  watched  and  followed  on  the 
evenings  he  says  he's  going  to  the  club  for  a  quiet 


284  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

rubber   of   whist   and  will   be  home  by  eleven  or  a 
quarter  past.  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  ever  meet  any  human  being  whom  you 
trusted?"  Olivia  asked  him,  with  a  gentle  exaspera- 
tion, at  another  later  period. 

"  No,  not  a  single  being  of  whom  I  could  say,  '  I'll 
trust  him  or  her  through  anything  that  may  happen 
in  the  way  of  temptation.'  There  isn't  anybody  who 
can  be  trusted  like  that.  Every  one  who  ever  lived 
has  had  a  price.  Sometimes  it's  large,  but  then  the 
size  depends  on  the  amount  of  respectability  that  is  to 
be  imperilled." 

"Then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  conscience." 

"No.  Emphatically  no.  Conscience  is  traditional, 
and  that  only.  You  might  have  a  child,  and  train 
him  up  to  believe  that  looking  at  the  moon  was  a  most 
horrible  sin.  All  through  the  rest  of  his  life,  no 
matter  how  enlightening  might  be  the  influences 
brought  to  bear  upon  him,  he  would  never  look  at  the 
moon  without  a  sense  of  violation  and  trespass.  You 
would  have  established  in  him  what  Herbert  Spencer 
would  call  a  line  of  least  resistance  for  the  incident 
force  of  fear.  Conscience,  remorse,  scrupulosity,  all 
began  with  that.  .  .  ."  He  paused,  and  watched  Olivia 
with  the  smile  that  she  had  grown  to  detest.  "  I  re- 
member I  said  something  of  this  same  sort  to  you  before 
we  were  married  —  and  shocked  you.  Didn't  I  ?  " 

"  You  shock  me  now." 

"I  know.  But  I  don't  mind.  I  have  got  you  all 
safe  to  myself,  now;  you  can't  escape  me.  Can  you?" 

She  saw  that  he  was  in  one  of  his  waspishly  jocular 
moods,  and  she  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said.     "I've  something  to  tell  you. 


OLIVIA   DEL  A  PLAINS.  285 

It's  about  our  truly  remarkable  marriage.  For  it  was 
remarkable,  was  it  not?" 

"Very,"  she  answered,  turning  pale.  She  had  a 
sudden  curiosity  to  know  what  new  sting  he  would 
inflict.  He  gave  a  soft,  unctuous  chuckle  before  he 
went  on.  "I  told  you  I'd  changed  my  will;  I  made 
your  aunt  Satterthwaite  believe  I  had.  But  I  didn't. 
I  didn't  intend  to  die.  I  was  a  little  afraid  that  I 
might,  in  spite  of  my  intentions,  but  still  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  not  to  die  if  I  could  help  it.  It  was  all  a 
delicious  fraud  on  my  part.  You  can't  find  many 
men  who  have  the  nerve  to  scheme  like  that  on  what 
may  turn  out  their  death-beds  within  an  hour  or  two. 
If  I  had  died  before  you  married  me  you  wouldn't 
have  got  a  dime.  That  seeing  my  lawyer  was  all  a 
blind  —  a  ruse  de  guerre  .  .  .  excuse  my  bad  pronun- 
ciation ;  you  know  I  never  could  get  on  with  French  ; 
I  leave  that  for  my  young  and  accomplished  wife,  who 
'had  resided  abroad  for  many  years  previous  to  be- 
coming the  spouse  of  her  eminent  banker-husband,'  as 
that  silly  Franco-American  newspaper  announced  the 
other  day.  ...  If  I  had  died  after  our  queer  wedding, 
you'd  have  got  your  widow's  third  — no  more."  And 
then  he  gave  another  chuckle,  and  looked  out  from 
the  window  near  which  he  sat,  and  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  bathed  in  winter 
sunshine. 

Olivia  always  bore  this  cat-and-mouse  treatment 
with  a  solemn,  almost  a  sublime  patience.  Afterward 
she  would  say  to  herself,  thinking  over  some  special 
dagger-thrust  that  he  had  dealt  her:  "I  am  glad  I 
made  him  no  answer.  I  am  glad  I  bore  it  calmly  as 
I  did.  It  is  my  punishment." 


286  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

But  now  and  then,  for  several  days  at  a  time,  lie 
would  be  a  model  of  urbanity  and  good  humor.  Dur- 
ing intervals  like  these  she  could  see  why  he  had 
gained  ascendancy  with  both  women  and  men ;  his 
caustic  wit  spared  no  person  or  thing,  and  yet  she 
comprehended  how,  with  other  hearers  than  herself,  it 
had  sounded  its  discordant  notes  not  too  recklessly 
for  the  production  of  a  distinct  amusement. 

When  they  reached  the  Riviera  all  the  hotels  were 
packed  with  visitors,  and  gayeties  reigned  imperially 
at  the  various  Mediterranean-skirting  resorts.  But 
Delaplaine  would  not  allow  his  wife  to  participate  in 
any  festivities  whatever.  Many  of  her  own  country- 
people  sent  invitations,  but  he  refused  them  himself, 
and  vetoed  their  acceptance  on  the  part  of  his  wife. 
An  occasional  luncheon  or  dinner  he  permitted ;  no 
large  gatherings,  however,  would  he  sanction,  nor  any 
entertainments  in  which  elaborated  and  magnificent 
costumes  became  requisite. 

"No,"  he  soon  informed  Olivia,  in  his  low-voiced, 
smooth-visaged  way,  "  you  shan't,  as  my  wife,  cheapen 
yourself  at  any  of  these  foreign  places.  I  won't  even 
let  you  be  presented  at  Court  in  London.  As  an 
American  one  is  incontestably  nobody  the  instant 
one's  foot  lands  upon  transatlantic  soil.  A  good  many 
Americans  are  constantly  forgetting  that  —  more's  the 
pity.  I  recollect  dining  once  in  the  salon  of  Del- 
monico's,  and  seeing  seated  next  me  a'  party  of  three 
palpably  raw  Westerners,  who  had  come  to  view  the 
town  —  a  father  with  a  tanned  face  and  a  beard  down 
under  his  chin ;  a  mother  with  a  yellowish  fur  cape 
that  reached  below  her  waist,  and  long  earrings  of 
gold  scroll-work,  and  a  reticule ;  and  finally  a  son  of 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  287 

about  fifteen  or  so,  with  enormous  front  teeth,  and  his 
mouth  in  a  perpetual  gape  of  awe.  .  .  .  You  know  the 
kind  of  rural  persons  I  mean.  .  .  .  Well,  they  seemed 
in  doubt  what  they  would  take.  I  was  dining  with  a 
little  party  that  evening  (I  believe  your  aunt  Satter- 
thwaite  gave  the  dinner,  by  the  bye),  and  we  fell 
into  private  giggles,  all  of  us,  over  the  absurd  hesi- 
tancy of  father,  mother  and  son.  The  waiter  stood 
listening  with  a  resigned  air  for  their  decision,  and 
finally  it  came.  They  ordered  three  pieces  of  mince 
pie  and  three  cups  of  tea.  .  .  .  Well,  that,  after  all, 
fairly  represents  the  conduct  of  the  average  American 
citizen  on  English  or  Continental  soil.  Some  Ameri- 
cans do  even  a  great  deal  worse  than  that.  Others 
(people  of  whom  there  are  a  few  thousands  like  you 
and  me)  must  suffer  in  consequence.  Socially  we  are 
nothing  here,  the  very  best  of  us,  and  we  need  not  for 
an  instant  flatter  ourselves  that  we  are  something. 
You  might  make  a  great  success  among  the  swells 
here,  but  though  you  would  be  in  their  throng  you 
would  never  really  be  of  it ;  they  would  always  con- 
nect you  with  the  species  of  person  that  orders  a  cup 
of  tea  and  a  plate  of  mince  pie  in  Delmonico's  at  the 
usual  dining  hour.  It  may  be  hideously  unjust  all 
this  .  .  .  who  says  it  isn't  ?  But  when  you've  reached 
my  age  you'll  understand  the  full  rarity  of  justice  on 
our  planet;  black  swans  and  white  crows  are  not  a 
circumstance  to  it  ...  All  very  well,  Olivia,  for  such 
women  as  Mrs.  Brummagem  Baker  to  despair  of  get- 
ting into  New  York  society  and  go  abroad  for  the 
purpose  of  having  an  aristocratic  stamp  put  upon 
them,  that  they  may  come  home  afterwards  with  gilt- 
ed<;ed  recommendations  to  the  residents  of  their  own 


288  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

native  metropolis.  But  you  don't  require  to  '  invade 
New  York'  as  they  used  to  say  Mrs.  Brummagem 
Baker  did,  after  she'd  been  received  at  Marlborough 
House  and  passed  a  day  at  Sandringham.  No ;  you 
are  a  Van  Rensselaer  in  the  first  place,  and  you're 
Mrs.  Spencer  Delaplaiue  in  the  second.  That  will 
have  to  be  enough  for  one  lifetime  —  or,  at  least,  till 
I'm  dead  and  you  marry  somebody  else.  Anyhow, 
you'd  never  win  anything  here  but  a  sort  of  tinsel 
favoritism.  They  might  take  you,  but  they'd  take 
you  with  a  big  pinch  of  salt  —  as  only  an  American. 
And  I  won't  have  you  taken  that  way.  .  .  .  We'll 
wait  until  we  get  home  before  you  try. a  turn  among 
the  fashionable  assemblages.  There  you're  princess, 
duchess,  and  countess  all  rolled  in  one.  Yes,  you  are, 
thanks  to  some  of  the  ridiculous  shortcomings  of  our 
ridiculous  republic  —  about  as  great  a  national  failure, 
take  it  all  in  all,  as  the  records  of  history  can  show." 

It  will  now  readily  be  understood  why  the  stay  of 
Delaplaine  and  Olivia  abroad  was  not  attended  by 
any  except  the  most  meagre  social  excitements. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  289 


XVI. 

DELAPLAINE  was  of  the  opinion  that  America  has  but 
a  single  season  whose  record  is  handsome  enough  to 
deserve  honorable  mention  in  any  calendar.  This 
season,  he  affirmed,  was  autumn ;  and  on  his  return  to 
his  native  land,  in  August  of  the  following  year,  he 
expressed  a  great  desire  to  see  once  more  the  Hudson 
when  its  banks  were  tinted  with  the  summer's  pris- 
matic decay.  Accordingly  he  leased  a  very  fine  estate 
not  far  from  Tarrytown,  installing  Olivia  there,  by  no 
means  against  her  will.  The  house  was  spacious  and 
comfortable  ;  the  grounds  commanded  a  noble  view  of 
the  lordly  river  near  by.  Olivia  took  long  walks,  long 
rides  and  long  drives  through  the  delightful  surround- 
ing country.  She  was  from  early  training  an  excellent 
equestrian,  and  the  stables  were  as  well  stocked  with 
horses  as  were  the  halls  and  chambers  of  her  new 
abode  supplied  with  drilled  and  efficient  servants. 
Her  husband  now  and  then  would  spend  one  or  two 
nights  in  town,  but  he  always  instructed  her  by  letter 
or  telegram  of  his  intended  absences,  which  decidedly 
did  not  fill  her  with  inconsolable  regret.  She  was 

o 

lonely,  but  not  to  any  despondent  degree.  She  had 
books  of  many  sorts  to  read,  and  as  she  kept  early 
hours,  slept  healthfully,  and  saw  a  good  deal  of  the 
breezy  sunshine  which  was  then  at  its  thriftiest,  her 
days  hardly  dragged  more  than  they  could  be  ex- 
pected to  do  amid  surroundings  of  so  much  undis- 


290  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

turbed  solitude.  Besides  she  had  the  winter  to  antici- 
pate. She  was  to  see  something  of  social  amusement 
then  ;  her  husband  had  promised  her  that  she  should 
both  entertain  and  be  entertained  after  they  returned 
to  West  Tenth  Street,  and  she  knew  that  his  pride  in 
her  would  make  him  keep  his  word,  however  caprice 
might  delay  him  in  the  ultimate  fulfilment  of  it.  She 
feared  showing  too  great  a  desire  for  distractions  of  a 
social  kind ;  his  moods  of  tantalizing  cruelty  were 
never  to  be  calculated  on.  She  had  discovered  that 
the  love  he  felt  for  her  was  one  constantly  on  the  alert 
to  ensheathe  itself  in  the  most  distressing  jealousy. 
She  had  never,  as  yet,  given  him  the  least  incentive  to 
become  jealous,  but  it  was  plain  to  her  that  this  trait 
in  him  only  waited  an  opportunity  for  rapid  and 
morbid  development. 

All  this  time  she  was  very  far  from  being  happy. 
But,  as  she  told  her  Aunt  Thyrza  during  several  trips 
that  she  made  to  town,  it  was  not  a  misery  that  stood 
any  chance  of  shortening  her  existence. 

"He  is  at  times  intolerable,"  she  said.  "One  of  the 
proofs  of  just  how  odious  he  can  make  himself,  Aunt 
Thyrza,  is  the  manner  in  which  he  forces  me  to  meet 
you  —  either  secretly  or  not  at  all.  I  should  so  love 
to  have  you  up  there  at  Green  acre  to  sniff  the  country 
air,  dear  old  soul,  for  a  week  or  two,  and  do  just  as 
you  chose  with  everybody  and  everything  about 
you!" 

Mrs.  Ottarson  gave  one  of  her  laughs.  "  Jfy,  Liv ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "I  guess  I'd  have  pretty  tough  work 
doin'  's  I  chose  with  Mr.  Del'plaine  round ! " 

Olivia  smiled  drearily.  "  I  am  afraid  any  one  would," 
she  answered. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  291 

Mrs.  Ottarson  took  her  hand  caressingly  between 
her  own.  "My  poor  deary!  It's  all  been  wrong. 
No  one  knows  more'n  I  do  jus  how  wrong  it's  all  been. 
Many's  the  night,  'Livia,  while  you  was  over  there 
'cross  the  water,  I've  laid  'wake  in  bed  thinkin'  'bout  it. 
An'  all  I  can  say,  Livvy,  is  that  you've  stood  it  splendid 
ever  since  you  got  through  that  awful  illness.  You 
d'serve  credit  for  bein'  so  brave  and  womanly." 

"I  surely  deserve  no  credit  at  all,  Aunt  Thyrza," 
was  the  answer.  "  You  and  I  have  talked  this  matter 
over  before  now.  The  marriage  may  have  been  fraud- 
ulent enough  on  his  part;  but  I  need  not  have  made 
it.  I  believe,  now,  that  I  fell  a  victim  to  the  deceit  of 
more  persons  than  that  sick  man  who  lay  with  so 
white  a  face  there  in  that  dim  chamber.  .  .  .  But 
never  mind ;  it  is  too  late  for  any  good  to  come  of 
open  accusations.  Besides,  I  find  no  one  so  hard  to 
pardon,  in  this  matter,  as  myself.  And  I  don't  want 
to  let  myself  believe,  even  for  an  instant,  that  I  was 
excusable  in  having  taken  the  downward  step  I  did 
take.  I  might  begin  to  waver,  then  —  to  lose  what 
courage  I  possess  —  to  strike  back,  blow  for  blow,  in- 
stead of  bearing  it  all  as  unflinchingly  as  I  can,  be- 
cause convinced  that  it  is  my  just  recompense,  my 
rightful  penalty." 

Two  or  three  times  Olivia  met  Adrian  Etherege 
during  short  visits  at  the  West  Tenth  Street  house, 
while  she  was  in  town  for  a  few  hours.  A  year  had 
made  the  youth  look  manlier,  though  it  had  robbed 
him  of  no  beauty.  He  had  a  hundred  questions  to 
ask  his  friend  concerning  the  lands  and  cities  embraced 
by  her  own  and  Delaplaine's  long  absence.  But  it 
was  not  always  of  foreign  travels  that  Adrian  wanted 


292  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

to  talk.  He  sometimes  chose  subjects  of  a  far  less 
material  sort. 

"  You  tell  me  that  you  are  lonely,"  he  once  said  to 
Olivia.  "  So  am  I ;  and  I  sometimes  feel  that  I  shall 
continue  lonely  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

" Have  you  no  friends,  then?"  his  companion  asked. 
"  I  mean  —  apart  from  myself,"  she  added  sweetly ; 
for  ever  since  her  husband  had  let  fall  those  memora- 
bly sneering  words  about  the  project  of  having  Adrian 
accompany  them  abroad  last  year,  she  had  lost  no 
chance  of  showing  the  young  secretary  in  how  much 
purely  amical  regard  she  held  him. 

"Few  that  I  care  for,"  said  Adrian.  "They  are 
mostly  young  men  of  my  own  age  —  and  they  are 
devoted  to  business  pursuits ;  they  are  at  the  bank  of 
Delaplaine  and  Company,  or  they  are  at  other  banks, 
or  in  brokers'  offices.  Now,  I  have  no  love  for  the 
ideas,  the  aims  and  the  undertakings  that  make  up  the 
chief  joys  of  life  for  persons  like  these." 

"  And  yet  they  tell  me  that  you  are  a  clever  busi- 
ness man." 

Adrian  quickly  shook  his  curly  golden  head.  "  Oh, 
they  are  wrong  —  if  by  'they'  you  mean  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine, as  I  suppose  you  do.  I  haven't  my  work  at 
heart ;  I  go  through  it  like  an  automaton ;  when  it  is 
over  I  want  to  forget  it.  And  there  is  no  one  to  help 
me  forget  it.  That  is  why  I'm  so  lonely.  If  I  had  a 
love  for  books  it  might  be  different ;  but  I  haven't.  I 
—  I  simply  like  people  —  the  people  who  amuse 
me." 

Olivia  laughed ;  she  rarely  laughed  nowadays  — 
indeed,  so  rai*ely  that  the  sound  of  her  own  audi- 
ble mirth  woke  a  little  thrill  of  surprise  in  her.  "You 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  293 

forget  that  yon  also  amuse  them"  She  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  adorable  eyes,  which 
had  never  enchanted  her  moi'e  than  if  they  had 
been  those  of  some  woman  whom  she  was  fond  of 
and  thought  singularly  fascinating.  "But  my  dear 
Adrian,"  she  went  on,  calling  him  by  the  name  which 
she  had  used  in  addressing  him  weeks  before  her 
departure  for  Europe,  "  you  have  the  faculty  of 
being  intelligent  without  the  need  of  books  to  make 
you  so." 

"I  am  not  intelligent,  Mrs.  Delaplaine,"  he  an- 
swered, speaking  with  excessive  earnestness.  "I 
can  never  do  anything  in  the  least  remarkable.  I 
can  simply  like  and  appreciate  those  who  have  gifts 
and  striking  qualities  above  my  own.  I  —  I  was  born 
to  be  a  background  and  not  a  foreground.  I'm  no 
talker,  as  you  know;  I  love  to  listen  —  when  I  may 
get  those  to  who;n  I  can  listen  without  becoming 
wearied.  Let  me  speak  very  frankly  with  you ;  I 
don't  want  you  to  misunderstand  me  —  to  imagine 
me  vain  in  what  I  have  just  said  about  those  mercan- 
tile associates.  I  am  far  from  placing  myself  above 
them,  but  ...  I  can't  even  be  a  background  to 
them.  ...  If  I  had  been  born  above  my  present 
position  in  life,  I  think  I  should  have  made  a  suc- 
cess of  it,  as  the  phrase  goes.  I  should  have  known 
persons  who  interested  me  —  artists,  dreamers,  poets, 
men  of  brains  and  culture.  I  should  have  been  their 
patron,  their  helper.  But  now  I  am  nothing.  I  am 
simply  —  agreeable,  as  you  once  told  me  that  I  was. 
I'm  not  of  enough  importance  for  the  talented  beings 
—  wherever  they  exist  in  New  York,  if  they  exist  at 
all  —  to  seek  me  out.  So  I  must  remain  lonely,  since 


294  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

I  have  no  means  of  meeting  or  mixing  among  the 
spirits  with  whom  I  truly  sympathize." 

Olivia  laughed  again.  "  You  don't  know  how  you 
interest  me,"  she  said. 

Adrian  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a  moment.  "  Why? 
Because  I  declare  myself  a  nonentity  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Absurd!  Because  you  are  so  much  less  a  nonen- 
tity than  you  imagine.  ...  I  fancy,  from  what  I  have 
read  of  the  great  thinkers,  the  great  poets,  the  great 
minds,  generally  speaking,  that  it  is  much  more  fortu- 
nate to  be  apart  from  them  and  admire  them  than  to 
be  one  of  them  and  suffer,  as  their  biographies  tell  us 
that  they  nearly  all  have  suffered.  .  .  .  But  if  you 
really  want  congenial  acquaintanceship,  perhaps  I 
shall  be  able  to  find  it  for  you." 

"To  find  it  for  me?  You?"  Olivia  failed  to 
notice  just  what  accent  and  intonation  went  into  this 
reply. 

"  Yes.  I  shall  see  a  good  deal  of  the  world  next 
winter.  Mr.  Delaplaine  "  (she  rarely  spoke  of  him  as 
"my  husband")  "has  promised  me  that  I  shall.  And 
then  your  chance  will  come.  I  prophesy  it,  Adrian." 

A  startled,  incredulous  look  responded  to  her.  "  Ah, 
he  would  never  allow  that ! "  the  young  man  mur- 
mured. "  He  would  never  let  me  even  dream  that  I, 
his  secretary,  his  servant,  was  on  an  equality  with 
you!  He  would  forbid  the  first  effort  you  made." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Olivia  softly,  as  if  speaking  to  her- 
self. But  suddenly  her  face  brightened.  "I  would 
tell  him,"  she  proceeded,  "that  I  wanted  to  secure  a 
wife  for  you." 

"A  wife?" 

"Yes,  .  .  .  Some  day  you  will   marry,  of   course. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  295 

Why  should  you  not  ?  And  I  will  carefully  look  all 
about  me  to  obtain  some  charming  girl  who  will  be 
just  the  proper  match  for  you."  Olivia  now  assumed 
a  humorously  grave  look.  "Let  me  see:  she  must,  in 
the  first  place,  be  handsome  —  almost,  if  not  quite,  as 
handsome  as  you  are.  Secondly,  she  must  be  rich  —  " 

"Pray,  stop,"  broke  in  Adrian.  There  was  a 
pained,  imploring  gaze  in  his  eyes  as  they  now 
lifted  themselves  to  her  own,  which  made  Olivia 
pause  and  even  regret  the  badinage  that  she  had 
thus  lightly  begun.  .  .  . 

She  had  never  mentioned  to  her  husband  these  few 
interviews  which  she  had  held  with  Adrian.  One 
evening  he  said  to  her,  amid  the  almost  drowsy  dul- 
ness  following  their  seven  o'clock  dinner  at  Greenacre  : 

"That  boy,  Adrian  Etherege  .  .  .  you  remember 
him  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  returned  Olivia. 

"He  had  better  see  to  some  loose  papers  which  I 
have  been  leaving  up  here,  and  which  need  to  be  filed 
and  labelled.  He  may  come  up  with  me  to-morrow 
night.  Do  you  object  to  his  corning?" 

"  No,"  replied  Olivia.     "  Why  should  I  object  ?" 

Adrian  carne  up  with  Delaplaine  the  next  evening. 
Dinner  was  served  almost  immediately  after  the 
arrival  of  host  and  guest.  Adrian  conducted  him- 
self, as  he  always  did  iri  the  presence  of  his  employer, 
with  repression  and  comparative  reticence. 

After  dinner  he  went  with  Delaplaine  into  the  pri- 
vate study  of  the  latter,  and  remained  there  for  over 
two  hours.  They  came  out  together,  and  at  once 
joined  Olivia,  who  sat  reading  near  a  lamp,  in  a  room 
that  glowed  with  Japanese  decorations. 


296  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  I  hope  to-morrow  will  be  a  glorious  autumn  day," 
she  said  smilingly  to  Adrian,  "  now  it  is  arranged  that 
you  are  to  stop  over  at  Greenacre  for  a  holiday.  We 
have  had  so  many  beautiful  days  during  the  past  fort- 
night that  it  will  be  a  sharne  if  to-morrow  is  not 
charming." 

"The  best  plan  is  never  to  expect  anything  good 
from  the  weather,"  said  Delaplaine,  with  his  glacial 
quietude.  "Then  it  may  agreeably  disappoint  you 
—  like  some  few  women  I  have  met." 

Long  ago  Olivia  had  learned  to  treat  the  sarcasms 

o      o 

of  her  husband  as  though  they  had  remained  un- 
spoken. "  And  how  do  you  like  this  absurdly  large 
house  of  ours?"  she  again  said  to  Adrian. 

"  I  am  decidedly  pleased  with  it,"  he  answered. 
"  The  appointments  are  all  in  such  taste.  You  forget 
both  the  size  and  the  number  of  the  rooms  in  their 
artistic  treatment." 

"  I  knew  you'd  have  something  to  say  in  praise  of 
Greenacre,"  replied  Olivia.  "  To-morrow  I  will  show 
you  some  of  those  exquisite  views  of  the  river  that  I 
mentioned  the  other  day." 

Delaplaine  had  drawn  near  the  log-fire  in  the  big 
chimney-place ;  for  the  evening  outside  (broken  with 
innumerable  voices  of  crickets  and  katydids)  told 
chillingly  of  perished  summer.  He  turned  his  head 
a  little  away  from  the  blaze,  though  still  keeping  his 
slender  body  bowed  and  one  thin  hand  crooked  like 
the  claw  of  a  bird,  with  the  firelight  shining  through 
it  and  staining  it  pink.  He  spoke  to  his  wife : 

"Did  you  see  Adrian  the  other  day?"    h-e  asked. 

"  I  did,"  said  Olivia.  She  was  sorry  that  her  tongue 
had  slipped.  She  had  not  previously  referred,  before 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  297 

her  husband,  to  these  few  past  meetings  with  Adrian. 
If  he  had  asked  her  whether  his  secretary  were  at 
the  house  in  West  Tenth  Street  when  she  had  pre- 
sented herself  there,  she  would  unhesitatingly  have 
answered  "  yes."  As  it  was,  she  had  preserved 
silence  regarding  the  whole  affair.  Adrian  now  en- 
joyed a  liberty  on  which,  as  the  functionary  of  a 
man  like  her  husband,  he  was  certainly  to  be  congratu- 
lated. Who  could  tell  what  sudden  restriction  might 
be  placed  upon  his  goings  and  comings,  provided 
Olivia  were  to  state  that  she  had  met  and  talked  with 
him?  And  so  she  had  held  her  peace,  by  no  means 
regretful  that  Delaplaine  had  failed  to  question  her. 

He  moved  away  from  the  fire,  now.  He  was  look- 
ing with  fixity  at  his  wife.  "You  mean  in  Tenth 
Street  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Olivia,  striving  to  speak  with  utter 
carelessness  and  succeeding.  "Adrian  happened  to 
be  there  at  the  same  time  with  myself." 

"Ah  .  .  .  indeed,"  said  Delaplaine,  with  a  tone  so 
neutral  and  colorless  as  to  leave  the  spirit  in  which  he 
made  this  brief  response  wholly  inscrutable  for  his 
hearers. 

"I  am  usually  in  Tenth  Street  until  three  in  the 
afternoon,"  "  said  Adrian,  "  when  nothing  calls  me  to 
the  bank." 

Delaplaine  'turned  and  watched  him  placidly  for  a 
moment.  "  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  know  the  irre- 
proachable industry  of  your  habits  as  my  secretary. 
You  have  no  cause  to  enlighten  me  upon  that  point." 

Adrian  bit  his  lip.  He  wondered  what  displeasure 
this  sudden  access  of  mock  politeness  foretokened. 
Almost  immediately  after  this,  Delaplaine  strolled 


298  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

out  of  the  apartment,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  servant 
appeared  requesting  that  Adrian  would  meet  his  mas- 
ter for  a  short  further  talk  in  the  study. 

"  He  is  angry,"  thought  Olivia,  "  at  my  having  pre- 
sumed to  see  poor  Adrian  in  Tenth  Street  without 
informing  him.  And  he  is  going  to  make  his  anger 
felt." 

She  was  right.  Adrian  did  not  pass  the  following 
day  at  Greenacre.  Delaplaine  had  discovered  that 
there  were  letters  of  importance  in  which  he  would 
require  his  secretary's  assistance  at  the  bank. 
Throughout  the  remainder  of  their  residence  in 
the  country-house,  Adrian  was  permitted  to  pay 
them  no  second  visit. 

"Is  it  jealousy?"  Olivia  asked  herself,  "or  is  it 
only  the  autocratic  protest  of  a  man  who  searches 
for  some  cold-blooded  device  of  annoyance?" 

Delaplaine  never  made  her  sure  just  what  it  was. 
If  he  anticipated  an  expression  of  disapproval  on  the 
part  of  his  wife,  no  such  evidence  greeted  him.  The 
truth  was,  Olivia  now  simply  awaited  what  the  com- 
ing season  in  New  York  would  bring  forth.  If  he 
attempted  then  to  hamper  the  enjoyment,  the  relaxa- 
tion, the  self -forgetful  ness  that  she  daily  grew  to  crave 
with  stronger  yearning,  she  might  have  some  cards  to 
play  in  such  a  cruel  victimizing  game  by  which  he 
would  be  surprised  if  not  repulsed. 

Latter  October  was  despoiling  the  trees  about 
Greenacre  of  their  last  leafy  brilliancies  when  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Delaplaine  returned  to  town.  The  Tenth 
Street  house  was  most  capably  prepared  for  their  re- 
ception. Servants  were  in  readiness ;  carriages  and 
horses  waited  Olivia's  order;  the  air  and  distinction 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  299 

of  the  entire  household  were  past  cavil.  But  no 
one  was  invited  to  participate  in  all  this  reposeful 
and  flawlessly  refined  luxury.  Olivia  had  hoped  to 
see  Adrian  again,  but  he  had  seemingly  left  the  abode 
to  return  no  more.  She  refrained  from  questioning 
her  husband  with  respect  to  his  absence. 

November  went  by.  Her  two  aunts,  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  had  exchanged  visits 
with  her.  At  last  came  the  large  Auchincloss  din- 
ner, which  she  was  permitted  to  accept,  and  which 
marked  the  beginning  of  her  career  as  a  woman  of 

o  o 

society. 

The  Patriarchs'  Ball  was  of  course  followed  by  many 
others,  both  public  and  private,  and  Olivia  went  to 
every  one  which  the  marital  veto  did  not  exclude. 
Delaplaine  was  excessively  commode  about  it  all.  He 
never  danced  nowadays,  and  yet  he  would  sit  chatting 
with  the  dowagers  till  the  small  morning  hours,  again 
and  again,  while  his  wife  shone  as  a  star  of  the  cotil- 
lon. It  began  to  be  declared  of  him  that  he  would 
make  a  model  husband.  But  no  one  saw  his  petty 
domestic  tyrannies,  or  the  lynx-like  way  in  which  he 
watched  all  Olivia's  male  admirers.  It  delighted  his 
egotism  that  she  should  "  succeed "  thus  brilliantly. 
He  wanted  his  wife  to  be  not  merely  a  great  lady, 
but  also  a  lady  of  well-conceded  personal  charm.  For 
this  reason  her  popularity  pleased  him.  But  other 
points  connected  with  it  pricked  and  irritated  him. 
Like  almost  every  old  man  who  has  ever  been  in  love 
with  a  young  woman,  he  became  susceptible  to  the 
sharpest  pangs  of  jealousy ;  but  in  his  special  case 
they  were  seizures  which  all  the  more  clearly  indicated 
how  barren  and  arid  was  his  nature  through  the  aus- 


300  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

terity  of  its  unrelieved  selfishness.  His  was  the  old 
dogTin-the-manger  feeling :  he  could  not  secure 
Olivia's  heart  himself,  but  he  was  determined  that 
no  one  else  should  secure  it. 

Slowly,  but  with  a  gathering  increase  toward  their 
culmination,  his  suspicions  all  assumed  a  single  shape. 
The  season  was  now  ending;  Lent  was  on  the  verge 
of  throwing  over  the  giddy  multitude  that  penitential 
nimbus  in  which  it  is  supposed  to  conceal  its  follies 
even  while  still  indulging  them.  Delaplaine  now 
felt  certain  that  Jasper  Massereene  was  preferred  by 
Olivia  to  all  her  other  devotees.  He  privately  thought 
the  young  man  excellent  style,  as  he  himself  would 
have  put  it.  What  he  chiefly  liked  about  Massereene 
was  the  engaging  simplicity  which  went  with  an  intel- 
lect of  no  ordinai-y  calibre.  He  had  tested  that  intel- 
lect more  than  once  in  their  talks  together,  and  he  had 
been  astonished  at  the  thoughtfulness,  cultivation  and 
acumen  concealed  behind  manners  that  were  no  less 
elegant  than  unpretentious. 

The  truth  was  that  he  failed  to  see  in  Jasper  Mas- 
sereene a  product  of  our  so-called  modern  agnosticism 
totally  opposite  from  that  which  he  himself  repre- 
sented, and  yet  in  every  way  as  distinctively  stamped 
by  the  same  peculiar  parentage.  Massereene  was  of 
necessity  the  finer  and  more  thorough  scholar  of  the 
two.  His  reading  had  been  wider,  his  outlook  was 
more  educationally  sweeping.  But  writers  and  think- 
ers like  Mill,  Spencer,  Darwin,  Buckle,  Huxley  or 
Lecky  had  stood  the  mental  sponsors  of  both.  And 
yet  with  Massereene  a  sincere  and  thriving  optimism 
had  resulted  from  precisely  the  same  causes  which 
had  fed  and  vitalized  Delaplaine's  implacable  pessim- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  301 

ism.  The  contrast  between  these  two  individualities 
could  not  have  been  more  positive  than  it  was,  and 
yet  they  had  been  moulded,  so  to  speak,  by  one  iden- 
tical philosophic  potency. 

Delaplaine  had  asked  his  own  mind,  not  many  weeks 
aero  what  could  be  the  inducement  which  led  this  En^- 

o  o 

lish-reared  young  radical  to  mix  among  the  frivolities 
of  a  fashionable  New  York  winter.  He  had  seen  that 
species  of  gayety  at  its  most  shining  stage  of  London 
development.  Why  should  he  care  for  so  feeble  and 
comparatively  provincial  a  reproduction  of  it  as  he 
encountered  here?  If  he  had  been  a  shallow,  or  even 
a  conventionally  mediocre  person,  it  would  have  al- 
tered the  case  ;  but  he  was  very  far  from  being  either. 
He  might  have  gone  to  a  few  of  those  entertainments 
where  one  meets  the  meagre  literary  element  of  New 
York  society;  or  he  might  have  dropped  in  at  a  few 
of  the  Twentieth  Century  Club  reunions,  presided 
over  by  persons  of  culture  and  solid  ability,  even 
though  their  assembled  throngs  are  perhaps  not  al- 
ways just  the  serious  auditors  to  be  expected  at  such 
momentous  gatherings.  But  to  go  about  night  after 
night,  where  flippancy  reigned  undisputed,  to  dance 
that  mechanical  cotillon,  to  send  bouquets  idly  broad- 
cast among  silly  women,  to  prefer  deliberately  the  in- 
terchange of  platitudes  for  that  of  ideas  —  a  like 
course  in  one  so  talented  and  sensible  was  hard  to 
account  for. 

Suddenly  Delaplaine,  with  no  cheerful  sensations, 
grew  confident  that  he  had  found  a  solution  of  the 
puzzle.  Massereene  went  out  into  the  merry  world 
because  Olivia  went.  He  was  more  persistently  and 
meaningly  attentive  to  her  than  any  other  of  her  male 


302  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

friends.  The  latter  were  getting,  indeed,  to  pay  him 
a  certain  deference  of  priority  when  he  appeared. 
Delaplaine  began  to  watch  these  demonstrations 
with  an  augmenting  inward  restlessness.  One  morn- 
ing he  returned  from  the  bank  unexpectedly,  and  en- 
tered the  drawing-room  to  find  Olivia  seated  there 
with  Jasper  Massereene  in  earnest  conversation.  A 
day  or  two  afterward,  having  promised  Olivia  that  he 
would  meet  her  at  a  certain  large  and  noteworthy  re- 
ception, he  was  exceedingly  late  in  keeping  the  ap- 
pointment. Olivia  had  left  the  reception  with  Mas- 
sereene, having  dismissed  her  carriage  a  few  minutes 
beforehand.  Delaplaine  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
these  two,  strolling  in  the  most  leisurely  manner 
side  by  side,  from  the  window  of  his  brougham  as 
it  sped  up  Madison  Avenue. 

About  a  fortnight  ago  invitations  had  been  sent  out 
for  a  great  ball  at  the  Satterthwaites'  on  the  day  but 
one  preceding  Lent.  This  ball  was  regarded  as  a 
most  appropriate  termination  of  the  winter's  mirth- 
making.  The  Satterthwaites  were  such  incontestable 
old  Knickerbockers  that  society  felt  a  grateful  thrill 
to  them  for  thus  magnanimously  helping  to  wind  up 
the  season.  Then,  too,  it  was  so  generous  of  the  Sat- 
terthwaites ;  for  they  had  done  so  much  entertaining 
in  previous  years,  and  their  two  girls,  Emmeline  and 
Elaine,  were  still  husbandless.  "  I  believe  there  is  a 
...  a  ...  Mr.  Plunkett  who  is  quite  attentive  to 
the  elder  of  my  two  cousins,"  Madeleine  Auchincloss 
used  to  say  nowadays,  with  her  most  innocent  smile. 
"I  don't  know  much  about  Mr.  Plunkett,  and  of 
course  the  name  is  not  a  familiar  one,  but  I  think 
he  has  a  married  sister  who  goes  among  artists  and 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  303 

writers  and  that  kind  of  people.  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  Mr.  Plunkett  is  a  writer  himself."  These  last 
words  were  always  added  with  the  suggestion  of  not 
wanting  to  be  too  hard  on  the  young  gentleman 
concerned,  and  to  give  him  his  full  right  of  contra- 
dicting what  may  have  been  a  false  accusation. 

There  was  no  one  conspicuously  attentive  to  Made- 
leine. But  she  would  never  have  put  up  with  any- 
body whose  principal  recommendations  to  matrimony 
were  that  he  possessed  gifts  either  of  brains  or  breed- 
ing. Who  can  guess  just  how  keen  a  satisfaction  it 
gave  her  to  insinuate  that  if  her  cousin  Emmeline 
should  contract  an  engagement  before  very  long,  it 
would  not  be  to  a  person  of  either  station  or  wealth  ? 
As  for  Madeleine  herself,  she  would  never  be  d 
prendre  on  d,  laisser  in  the  way  that  some  well-born 
girls  allow  themselves  to  become.  Not  she!  Either 
she  would  marry  advantageously  or  not  at  all.  Alas! 
it  is  just  this  high  and  disinterested  view  of  marriage 
that  is  yearly  filling  the  ranks  of  our  most  select 
American  maidens  with  cases  of  inflexible  spinster- 
hood  ! 

A  general  understanding  existed  that  the  Satter- 
thwaite  ball  was  to  be  given  in  honor  of  its  hostess's 
beloved  niece,  Mrs.  Spencer  Delaplaine.  Olivia's  hus- 
band, after  drawing  these  conclusions  regarding  Mas- 
sereene  of  which  mention  has  been  made,  was  now 
resolved  that  the  intimacy  should  forthwith  end.  His 
wife  had,  once  before,  boldly  disobeyed  him ;  that  re- 
volt had  concerned  her  ceasing  longer  to  know  Mrs. 
Ottarson.  But  on  all  other  occasions  where  he  had 
commanded  she  had  acceded,  and  the  meekness  with 
which  she  had  borne  his  manifold  irritations  could  not 


304  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

have  offered  any  domestic  despot  more  tempting 
chances  of  tyranny.  There  is  little  doubt  that 
Delaplaine  mistook  the  motives  of  this  former  con- 
tinued meekness  when  he  said  to  her,  only  a  short 
time  before  the  much-talked-of  ball : 

"  I  suppose  you  are  engaged  for  the  German  at  the 
Satterthwaites'?" 

"Yes,"  Olivia  replied. 

"  May  I  ask  to  whom  ?  " 

"  To  Mr.  Massereene." 

"Ah?"  murmured  Delaplaine.  It  was  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  had  met  his  wife,  clad 
in  a  daintily  fresh  street-costume,  at  the  door  of  the 
lower  front  drawing-room.  Her  coupe  waited  outside. 
She  was  going  to  pay  some  visits  of  etiquette.  She 
had  been  looking  over  her  cards,  and  held  a  little  col- 
lection of  them  in  her  neat-gloved  hand.  They  were 
the  cards  of  the  gentlewomen  whose  visiting-day  hap- 
pened to  be  this  particular  one. 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say,"  Delaplaine  now  continued, 
with  his  usual  faultless  repose.  "Be  good  enough  to 
let  me  say  it  in  here,  will  you  ?  "  And  he  passed  im- 
mediately into  the  drawing-room. 

Olivia  followed  him.  He  had  tried  her  very  sorely 
of  late ;  more  than  once  she  had  felt  her  patience  giv- 
ing way  beneath  his  formidable  impertinences,  his 
steel-tipped  personalities.  She  knew  that  her  popu- 
larity gratified  his  pride,  but  she  had  begun  to  weary 
under  the  incessant  goad  of  slur  by  which  he  made 
her  pay  for  having  thus  pleased  others  besides  himself. 

After  they  had  both  cleared  the  threshold  of  the 
outer  hall  by  a  good  many  paces,  Delaplaine  turned 
and  quietly  faced  her. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  305 

"You  are  too  much  seen  in  the  company  of  that  man, 
Massereene,"  he  said. 

"  Indeed  !     You  think  so  ?  " 

"I  decidedly  think  so.  It  must  cease.  I  allow  you 
to  be  a  woman  of  fashion  for  the  present,  because  it 
suits  me  that  you  should  show  people  how  my  mar- 
riage, late  in  life  though  it  was,  has  not  resulted  in  my 
marrying  a  feminine  dullard.  You  have  held  your 
own  thus  far  very  well.  I  did  not  expect  to  find  it 
expedient  that  I  should  rebuke  any  imprudence  in 
you.  I  now  find  it  so.  As  I  said,  you  see  too'  much 
of  this  Massereene.  I  don't  wish  you  to  dance  with 
him  the  last  German  of  the  season.  And  I  will  not 
permit  you  thus  to  dance  it.  You  must  break  your 
engagement  with  him  for  the  Satterthwaite  ball.  .  .  . 

o    o 

Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"Perfectly,"  said  Olivia.  Her  eyes  had  been 
drooped  for  several  seconds.  She  now  raised  them 
and  looked  at  him  as  lie  had  never  seen  -her  look  at 
him  before  —  not  even  when  she  had  defied  him  with 
relation  to  cutting  Mrs.  Ottarson.  "  Perfectly,"  she 
repeated,  "  and  I  shall  not  do  as  you  desire."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  drew  a  deep,  long  breath, 
her  face  paling  noticeably  at  the  same  time.  "I  am 
engaged  to  Mr.  Massereene,"  she  continued,  "and  I 
shall  dance  with  him  on  Wednesday  night."  She 
took  a  step  or  two  nearer  Delaplaine.  A  light  came 
flashingly  into  her  blue  eyes,  and  a  curl  raised  her  lip 
so  that  he  could  see  the  white  teeth  glistening  be- 
neath it.  "You  have  asked  me,"  she  still  went  on, 
"  whether  I  understood  you.  I  do  understand  you, 
thoroughly.  And  I  refuse  —  point-blank  I  refuse  — 
to  do  as  you  most  unjustly  require  !  " 


306  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

He  stared  at  her.  He  had  got  out  his  eyeglasses, 
and  had  begun  to  twirl  them  by  their  slender  cord 
over  one  finger. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  in  very  low  tones ;  "  you  .  .  .  you 
defy  me,  then  ?  " 

Olivia  threw  back  her  head,  and  laughed  with  a 
terrible  bitterness.  The  stored-up  misery  of  months 
rang  in  that  laugh.  But  something  else  rang  in  it  as 
well  —  the  desperate  challenge  of  a  spirit  goaded  until 
resignation  was  flung  quite  away. 

"I  do  defy  you ! "  she  answered.  "  You  have  made 
me  suffer  long  enough  !  Now  you  shall  see  me  throw 
off  the  mask.  Now  you  shall  see  just  what  sort  of  a 
woman  you  married  when  you  made  her  your  wife  — 
made  her  so  by  the  lies  you  yourself  not  long  ago  ac- 
knowledged that  you  spoke  !  " 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  307 


XVII. 

DELAPLAINE  drew  backward,  feeling  that  he  had 
indeed  unloosed  a  whirlwind.  Olivia's  face  was  very 
pale,  now,  and  its  expression  was  one  of  blended  cour- 
age and  contempt.  She  gave  her  husband  no  time  to 
reply.  She  seized  upon  the  swift-passing  chance  that 
his  own  evident  amazement  afforded  her.  Her  voice 
was  not  loud,  but  its  vibrations  expressed  at  once  a 
fierceness  and  an  intrepidity  which  mere  sound  could 
not  have  more  plainly  conveyed. 

"  You  have  told  me  how  you  came  to  marry  me. 
But  you  have  never  yet  heard  how  I  soiled  myself  by 
consenting  to  marry  you.  My  consent  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  gratitude  toward  my  dead  father. 
I  became  your  wife,  in  the  distressing  way  that  I  did 
so  become,  because  ambitious  feelings  tempted  me  — 
and  most  unworthily,  I  admit.  .  .  .  You  know  of  my 
wretched  illness  after  learning  that  you  would  live 
and  be  my  husband.  .  .  .  Well,  let  all  that  pass  .  .  . 
I  recovered ;  I  was  your  wife,  and  I  faced  the  fate 
that  I  had  brought  on  myself.  But  how  did  I  face  it  ? 
Just  as  if  it  had  been  the  infliction  of  a  deserved  pen- 
ance ;  that,  indeed,  is  what  I  held  it  to  be.  You  were 
my  yoke  —  my  burden ;  but  I  had  brought  you  upon 
myself,  and  I  determined  to  bear  you  bravely.  At 
first  your  kind  treatment  was  a  new  reproach  to  me. 
I  did  not  merit  being  thus  permitted  to  endure  the 
consequences  of  my  own  misdeeds  with  so  little  conse- 


308  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

qucnt  pain.  It  seemed  only  right  that  I  should  suffer. 
But  tliat  came  soon  enough.  You  made  me  suffer. 
You  cannot  say  that  I  flinched  often.  I  am  not  a 
fool;  you  knew  I  was  not  that,  when  you  married  me. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  saw  or  not  that  I  was 
simply  clenching  my  teeth  and  bearing  it  all  as  best  I 
could.  I  think  you  did  see  this,  and  that  it  made  you 
still  more  cruel  in  your  dealings  with  me.  Meanwhile 
I  drew  upon  my  own  fortitude,  and  kept  my  nerves  as 
steady  as  the  good  fortune  of  my  youth  could  help  me 
to  keep  them.  If  I  had  been  an  older  woman,  I  might 
have  broken  down.  As  it  was  I  did  not  break  down. 
'I  am  taking  my  punishment,'  I  said — and  I  took  it. 
Once  you  presumed  to  dictate  terms  regarding  the 
continuance  of  my  friendship  with  Aunt  Thyrza. 
There  I  opposed  you,  for  you  passed  (and  at  the  very 
moment  of  assuming  your  real  character)  beyond  the 
bounds  of  either  my  toleration  or  my  self-control. 
But  perhaps  that  little  episode  gave  you  my  gauge,  as 
it  were;  it  showed  you  just  how  far  you  could  bend 
me  before  I  broke.  On  a  hundred  different  occasions 
you  have  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  my  disobedience. 
I  have  never  been  in  the  least  afraid  of  you.  If  I  had 
been  I  should  have  felt  fear  in  taking  the  stand  that  I 
take  now.  For  I  admit  that  my  patience  is  at  last 
exhausted.  You  say  that  I  shall  not  dance  the  Ger- 
man with  Jasper  Massereene  at  the  Satterthwaite  ball. 
I  reply  to  you  with  the  utmost  conceivable  defiance^ 
that  I  shall  so  dance.  If  you  try  to  prevent  my  going 
to  the  ball,  then  you  must  use  force  —  it  may  be  that 
you  will  even  use  personal  violence.  I  have  heard  of 
husbands  like  yourself  doing  just  those  miserable 
things.  Very  well,  then  —  tout  est  dit.  You  push  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  309 

whole  matter  into  publicity.  For  myself,  I  don't  care 
whether  you  do  or  no.  If  they  told  me  afterward 
that  I  had  any  good  ground  for  getting  a  divorce  from 
you,  I  am  sure  that  I  should  sooner  or  later  rejoice 
very  much.  I  confess  my  entire  rdle  of  hypocrisy  to 
have  been  a  sad  failure.  I  play  no  longer  either  the 
saint  or  the  meek-souled  woman.  Henceforth  I  mean 
to  forget  that  I  sinned  in  marrying  you.  Or,  if  I  do 
not  forget,  I  shall  consider  my  expiation  accomplished. 
Your  future  commands  will  win  from  me  no  more 
attention  than  your  taunts  have  done  for  a  year  past. 
You  must  now  either  leave  me  my  own  mistress  or  be 
prepared  for  my  desertion  of  you.  I  mean,  plainly, 
that  I  will  go  back  to  Aunt  Thyrza.  No  power  on 
earth  can  make  me  live  with  you  against  my  will,  and 
certainly  such  power  is  not  represented  by  either  your 
insolence  or  your  persecution." 

Olivia  moved  past  her  husband,  after  this  long  yet 
inflexibly  sustained  speech,  with  a  queen's  ownfroid- 
eur  in  her  face.  Heredity  is  a  marvellous  fact;  you 
saw,  as  if  by  a  sudden  little  burst  of  revelation,  that 
she  was  her  aunt  Letitia's  indisputable  niece  —  but 
with,  of  course,  a  vast  difference. 

She  left  the  room,  and  he  allowed  her  to  do  so  with- 
out volunteering  the  least  reply.  He  could  scarcely 
have  done  anything  which  Olivia  would  have  found 
more  tantalizing. 

For  a  long  time,  however,  he  remained  there  in  the 
drawing-room.  He  was  not  angry  at  his  wife.  Lov- 
ing her  as,  in  his  curious  fashion,  he  did  love  her,  the 
audacity  of  her  recent  outburst  had  even  placed  her 
before  him  in  a  new  admired  light.  But  at  the  same 
time  it  had  inflamed  his  jealousy  with  a  wholly  new 


310  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

fire.  He  assured  himself  that  Jasper  Massereene  was 
at  the  root  of  her  abrupt  rebellion.  She  had  flung 
aside  all  disguise,  but  not  because  she  was  weary  and 
stung  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience.  A  passion  had 
enveloped  her  spirit,  and  she  was  acting  by  its  impe- 
rious dictates.  Her  swift  sentences  of  accusation  and 
of  explanation  had  pierced  him  deeper  than  he  desired 
to  let  any  living  mortal  know  —  and  least  of  all  her 
from  whose  quiver  such  wounding  shafts  had  sped. 
He  had  always  known  and  felt  that  she  cared  nothing 
for  him ;  but  her  announcement  that  she  cared  noth- 
ing for  reputable  concealment  of  her  injuries  and  her 
matrimonial  heart-burnings,  assailed  him  with  an  un- 
expected keenness. 

He  sat  for  a  long  while  with  his  thin  hands  knotted 
together  and  his  gray  head  most  dejectedly  drooped. 
He  had  too  much  power  of  brain  not  to  perceive  the 
mournful  absurdity  of  his  own  position.  The  love 
that  he  bore  Olivia  —  the  love  that  his  acid  and  repul- 
sive temperament  could  no  more  express  in  a  gracious 
and  courtly  way  than  some  fountain  whose  tubes  are 
mire-clogged  can  send  forth  a  limpid  current  to  the 
sun — this  love  seemed  now  objective  and  apparent 
before  him,  mocking  him  with  its  incongruous  vitality. 
And  socially  it  stood  a  fair  chance  of  wrecking  him. 
He  had  always  abhorred  the  idea  of  a  scandal  being 
connected  with  his  name.  But  here,  suddenly,  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  desperate  woman  — 
a  woman  who  had  asserted  that  she  would  not  hesitate 
to  turn  the  full  glare  of  publicity  upon  their  past 
relations  as  man  and  wife. 

Still,  Delaplaine's  agitation,  keen  as  it  now  was,  did 
not  prevent  his  lucid  mind  from  working.  Almost 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  311 

instinctively  he  reviewed  Olivia's  late  conduct,  and 
compared  it  with  the  manner  in  which  she  had  previ- 
ously behaved  to  him.  Did  she  not  really  value  her 
present  position  ?  Had  she  not  openly  admitted  that 
she  had  married  him  solely  for  reasons  of  worldliness? 
Infatuated  as  she  may  have  become  with  Masscreene, 
was  there  not  more  temporary  feminine  heat  in  her 
late  show  of  recklessness  than  its  apparent  sincerity 
would  imply?  She  had  assumed  a  posture  of  the  most 
baffling  indifference  as  regarded  her  pi'esent  place 
before  the  world,  but  would  this  dauntless  unconcern 
prove  permanent?  She  had  professed  herself  un re- 
gardful of  future  impoverishment,  but  would  she  so 
bravely  meet,  after  all,  the  stern,  practical  test  of  her 
boasted  hardihood?  'I  will  try  her,' Delaplaine  said 
to  himself.  And  he  did  ti'y  her  —  believing  unchange- 
ably, at  the  same  time,  that  she  was  now  swayed 
by  an  ai'dent  and  headlong  sentiment  for  Jasper  Mas- 
sereene. 

That  same  evening  they  .were  engaged  to  be  present 
at  one  of  those  great,  costly  dinners  which  grow  more 
and  more  frequent  as  New  York  departs  farther  from 
early  republican  ideals.  Delaplaine  did  not  again  see 
his  wife  until  he  met  her  in  the  lower  hall,  cloaked  for 
the  carriage  that  waited  outside.  He  noted  that  she 
was  a  little  paler  than  usual ;  otherwise  her  counte- 
nance bore  no  traces  of  the  tempest  that  not  long  ago 
had  stirred  and  kindled  it.  A  footman  opened  the 
front  door,  and  she  silently  passed  out,  descending  the 
stoop.  Another  footman  opened  the  door  of  the 
carriage.  As  Olivia  entered  the  latter  she  appeared 
perfectly  ignorant  that  her  husband  was  following 
her.  He  seated  himself  opposite  to  her,  and  the 


312  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

vehicle  rolled  away.  It  was  dark,  and  the  electric 
lights  were  all  aglow.  Olivia,  leaning  back  against 
soft  cushions,  let  her  gaze  obliquely  fasten  itself  upon 
an  unshaded  segment  of  the  window  nearest  her. 
They  had  begun  to  move  at  a  rapid  pace,  for  their 
hosts  lived  considerably  higher  up  town  than  West 
Tenth  Street,  and  it  was  now  almost  the  hour  (half- 
past  seven)  at  which  they  had  been  asked  to  present 
themselves.  As  the  carriage  was  hurried  clatteringly 

O  O    •/ 

through  Fifth  Avenue,  Olivia  watched  the  various 
forms  of  the  passers,  outlined  with  such  inky  darkness 
against  the  silvery  glare  all  about  them.  They  would 
have  done,  in  their  weirclness,  for  a  Blake  or  a  Vedder 
to  have  peopled  some  fanciful  hell  with.  "And  yet," 
came  her  thought,  both  humorous  and  grim,  "I  haven't 
a  doubt  that  lots  of  them  would  be  very  unsuited  to 
infernal  surroundings.  And  I  dare  say  that  very  few 
of  them  would  change  fates  with  me  —  if  they  could 
look  into  my  heart  and  see  the  darkness  there" 

She  had  already  begun  to  shudder  at  the  prospect 
of  Delaplaine's  hostility  being  shown  by  some  act  of 
vengeful  exposure.  She  was  not  willing  to  make  the 
least  retraction  of  her  passionate  words,  nor  did  she, 
indeed,  regret  their  utterance.  But  dearly  as  she 
still  loved  and  would  always  love  Mrs.  Ottarson,  the 
mere  thought  of  returning  to  West  Twenty-Third 
Street  had  borrowed  from  calmer  reflection  almost 
terrifying  colors.  Still,  she  would  go  back  there 
resignedly  if  the  worst  should  come.  After  all,  if 
her  husband  refused  full  surrender,  to  live  with  him 
longer  would  be  insupportable  torment.  His  jealousy 
of  young  Adrian  Etherege  had  seemed  a  trifling  insult 
enough,  without  this  later  exposition.  It  was  perhaps 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  313 

because  Jasper  Massereene  had  roused  in  her  feelings 
where  an  ardent  respect  narrowly  approached  positive 
reverence,  that  Delaplaine's  last  unforeseen  fiat,  pro- 
nounced with  relation  to  him,  had  marked  the  abso- 
lute limit  of  her  concession.  She  had  still  no  more 
dreamed  of  loving  Massareene  than  she  had  dreamed 
of  not  honoring  his  intellect,  his  manliness  and  his 
rectitude,  or  of  not  finding  solace,  help  and  encourage- 
ment in  his  unique  companionship.  She  was  a  woman 
whose  fervor  of  sentiment  (provided  that  she,  a  wife, 
had  realized  cherishing  it  toward  any  man  not  her 
husband)  might  have  burned  on  in  her  soul  as  harm- 
lessly as  the  fire  of  a  diamond  will  burn  amid  its 
defensive  crystal  sheath. 

The  silence  that  Delaplaine  maintained  there  in  the 
darkness  of  the  carnage  began  to  impress  her  with  the 
keenest  discomfort.  What  fell  intensity  of  response 
or  of  counter  action  was  he  reserving  behind  this 
stony  reticence  ?  The  very  gloom  which  enwrapped 
him  added  an  appreciable  dread  to  his  mysteriously 
speechless  policy.  And  policy  was  just  the  word  to 
define  his  present  attitude.  He  was  a  man  of  untold 
resources.  He  had  doubtless  dealt  with  women  be- 
fore now  under  circumstances  where  emotion  had 
arrayed  itself  against  calculation  and  self-mastery. 
"And  I,"  thought  Olivia,  while  she  continued  im- 
movably to  stare  away  from  him,  through  the  win- 
dow of  the  swift,  rumbling  carriage,  "I  have  only  my 
heart,  my  sense  of  right,  my  recognition  of  outrage  to 
guide  me,  in  fighting  with  his  frigid  tact,  his  experi- 
enced cruelty." 

Suddenly  he  surprised  her  by  speaking.  His  voice 
was  just  loud  enough  to  be  plainly  heard. 


314  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"You  still  intend  to  defy  me  in  that  matter  of 
dancing  with  a  certain  gentleman  ?" 

She  gathered  herself  together,  as  it  were,  on  the 
instant.  "Yes,"  she  replied. 

"  I  wouldn't  excite  myself  again,  if  I  were  you,"  he 
returned,  with  the  same  impenetrable  undertone.  "I 
can  hear  you  quite  as  well  if  you  answer  me  in  a 
lower  key.  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  go  into  din- 
ner looking  red  in  the  face  and  vulgarly  flustered. 
Your  appearance  was  very  composed  —  very  reputa- 
bly so  —  when  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 
A  quiet  question  asks  only  a  quiet  answer.  I'm  going 
to  put  another  question,  by  the  way.  Provided  you 
do  leave  me,  as  you  distinctly  threatened,  have  you 
weighed  the  importance  of  what  I  could  say  you  stated 
to  be  your  true  reasons  for  having  married  me  ?" 

"Have  ...  I  ...  weighed  its  importance?"  came 
the  somewhat  faltered  answer.  Then,  more  firmly, 
she  went  on :  "I  have  weighed  the  importance  of  but 
one  thing — ending  the  wrongs  you  have  made  me 
suffer  from." 

"Ah,"  he  murmured.  She  heard  him  draw  a  long 
breath.  "It's  rather  a  serious  thing  to  have  said  of 
one  that  you  married  an  old  man  on  his  death-bed  for 
his  money  —  and  afterward  freely  admitted  this." 

Olivia  gave  a  bleak  laugh,  unconscious  of  having 
done  so.  "  And  the  old  man  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Pray 
don't  forget  his  side  of  the  affair.  It  would  scarcely 
be  just." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  madame,  I  assure  you  that  I  shall 
entirely  forget  it.  If  there  is  ever  any  public  talk  of 
you  and  me,  the  drift  of  opinion  cannot  possibly  set 
but  one  way." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  315 

"  I  understand,"  she  returned  ;  "  you  will  use  every 
means  to  make  it  set  so  that  falsehood  can  supply  you. 
with." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.  My  record,  you  know,  is  quite 
unimpeachable.  I  shall  simply  make  a  few  state- 
ments, and  people  will  all  believe  me.  Don't  for  an 
instant  flatter  yourself  that  they  will  not.  I  have 
been  a  great  many  years  before  New  York  society. 
You  may  think  very  hard  things  about  me,  but  New 
York  society  thinks  exceedingly  nice  ones.  It  will 
say  'Poor  Delaplaine!  At  his  age  to  become  the 
victim  of  a  manoeuvring  girl  like  that !  What  a 
terribly  unprincipled  creature  she  must  be ! '  Some  of 
the  people  whom  you  told  me  you  had  met  in  Mrs. 
Ottarson's  boarding-house  might  sympathize  with  you, 
after  they  had  heard  your  side  of  the  story.  I  don't 
just  know  how  contented  you  would  feel  with  that 
sort  of  a  constituency.  But  it  would  be  all  you  could 
ever  secure.  Of  course  if  you  had  money,  matters 
might  be  different;  you  could  afford,  then,  to  snap 
your  fingers  in  the  faces  of  your  detractors.  But  as 
you  would  now  be  placed,  you  would  represent  two 
very  unpleasant  phases  of  life  —  poverty  and  unpopu- 
larity. You  would  find  that  nearly  all  your  friends 
would  drop  away  from  you  after  you  had  gone  to  the 
Twenty-Third  Street  boarding-house.  It  wouldn't  be 
so  difficult  for  them  to  forget  that  you  are  a  Van 
Rensselaer  after  you  had  been  at  pains  to  remind 
them  that  you  are  also  a  ...  Jenks.  And  your  slim 
purse  would  be  no  temporary  inconvenience,  either, 
provided  you  really  left  me.  I  would  get  the  clever- 
est lawyers  I  could  find  to  keep  you  out  of  your  thirds 
after  you  became  my  widow.  I'm  not  sure  but  that 


316  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

desertion  would  afford  rather  easy  grounds  for  such 
an  arrangement.  I'm  entirely  serious  about  all  this, 
as  I  think  you  must  perceive.  You  might  fight  my 
will,  but  litigation  is  expensive." 

His  words  had  to  Olivia's  jarred  nerves  the  sharp- 
ness and  hardness  of  knife-edges.  "  I  shall  not  fight 
your  will,"  she  said.  "If  I  live  longer  than  you  do 
I  will  not  touch  a  dollar  of  your  money  except  what 
you  choose  lawfully  to  leave  me.  As  for  quitting 
your  house  now,  I  will  only  do  it  if  I  am  driven  to  it." 

"I  see.  If  I  don't  consent  to  your  dancing  the 
German  with  Jasper  Massureene."  It  would  be  impos- 
sible for  any  spoken  sentence  to  convey  satire  at  once 
more  caustic  and  more  serene. 

Olivia  gnawed  her  lip  in  the  darkness.  She  had 
always  detested  satire,  but  when,  as  she  now  felt,  it 
became  like  a  wounding  splinter  from  the  stony  nature 
of  him  who  employed  it,  her  aversion  deepened  to 
loathing. 

"  Put  it  that  way  if  you  please,"  she  replied.  "  I 
have  no  objections.  What  you  say  is  a  part,  though 
far  from  being  all,  of  the  actual  truth." 

"Precisely,"  he  muttered,  with  his  unalterable  re- 
pose. "  The  real  cause  of  war  between  nations  very 
often  lies  wholly  outside  the  excuse  for  beginning 
hostilities." 

"  I  require  no  excuse,"  responded  Olivia,  "  and  I 
have  no  cause  except  one  —  resentment  against  injury." 

Just  then  the  carriage  stopped.  For  the  first  time 
since  their  entrance  into  the  carriage  together,  Olivia 
saw  her  husband's  face,  bathed  in  the  white  light  that 
streamed  from  an  opposite  corner.  It  looked,  that 
face  of  Delaplaine's,  as  though  it  were  cut  out  of  drab 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  317 

slate.  A  slight  smile  flickered  about  its  parted  lips. 
She  had  seen  that  smile  hundreds  of  times  before,  but 
it  had  never  looked  so  coolly  devilish  to  her  as  at  this 
especial  time. 

"You  have  another  cause,"  he  said.  "I  mean  Jas- 
per Massareene." 

"That  is  untrue,"  she  answered,  while  her  heart 
gave  one  indignant  throb. 

"  You  say  so  in  the  most  virtuously  glib  way.  But 
you  can  prove  it  by  obeying  my  commands." 

"  I  will  not  obey  them." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  hold  the  glint  of  steel  in  their  dim 
pupils. 

"  I  will  not.  What  I  say  to  you  I  say  for  the  last 
time,  too :  I  will  not.  Be  prepared  for  any  course 
you  may  decide  to  take.  But  rely  on  this :  my  oppo- 
sition meets  and  matches  your  tyranny,  act  for  act." 

All  this  passed  very  quickly  between  them.  In 
another  moment  the  footman  had  swung  wide  open 
the  door  of  the  carriage.  Delaplaine  at  once  alighted, 
and  assisted  his  wife  to  do  the  same,  with  that  sn'ace- 

•  O 

ful  composure  of  movement  which  his  years  had  not 
yet  destroyed,  and  which,  in  his  earlier  life,  had  won 
him  a  well-merited  repute  for  courtly  and  distin- 
guished manners. 

It  looked,  now,  like  the  most  momentous  sort  of 
deadlock  between  them.  But  circumstance,  that 
busiest  of  entanglers  and  unravellers  in  her  dealings 
with  the  threads  of  all  human  destiny,  was  already 
employed  on  her  usual  incalculable  task  after  a  fashion 
that  neither  could  have  remotely  prophesied. 

The  Satterthwaite  ball  never  occurred.     Not  many 


318  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

hours  later,  New  York  society  woke  to   the 

table  fact  that  it  would  be  deprived  of   so  festal  an 

opportunity  for  crossing  the  dreary  Lenten  threshold. 

Little  Lulu  Satterthwaito  had  been  in  her  gayest 
spirits  that  morning.  There  was  to  be  a  commemora- 
tive cotillon  at  dancing-school  in  the  afternoon.  The 
school  continued  through  Lent,  but  some  of  the  merry 
young  folk  who 'formed  its  corps  of  disciples  had 
induced  their  preceptors  to  give  them  a  gala  meeting, 
as  if  it  were  "winding  up"  an  imaginary  fashionable 
season.  Lulu  herself  had  risen  the  reigning  spirit  of 
the  proposed  frolic.  She  had  been  for  days  full  of 
"  mamma's  ball,"  and  watchful  of  all  its  preparatory 
details.  She  knew  exactly  what  her  mother  and  her 
two  sisters  were  to  wear,  and  had  said  to  Elaine 
several  days  ago,  with  her  little  golden  head  put  sapi- 
ently  on  one  side,  and  a  miniature  frown  of  marked 
solemnity  on  her  forehead : 

"Do  you  know,  Elly,  I've  been  thinking  it  over 
very  seriously,  and  I  do  think  nothing  will  be  so 
becoming  to  you,  after  all,  as  your  blue  tulle  trimmed 
with  the  forget-me-nots?  You've  only  worn  it  once 
before,  you  know  —  at  the  second  of  the  assemblies  — 
and  you've  not  a  single  dress  that  shows  you  off  half 
as  well.  It's  altogether  the  most  fetching  thing  you 
have." 

But  Elaine  had  answered  snappishly  that  she  would 
wear  what  she  pleased,  and  that  such  proceedings 
were  not  of  a  sort  to  interest  little  girls.  "  Besides, 
Lulu,"  her  sister  added,  "  if  you  don't  stop  using  those 
slangy  phrases  which  I'm  sure  that  Vnn  Dnm  boy 
teaches  you,  I'll  get  papa  to  make  you  cease  having 
anything  to  do  with  him." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  319 

Lulu  tossed  her  head.  "Papa  wouldn't,"  she  re- 
torted. "  He  knows  Charity's  a  catch ;  some  day  he 
will  have  lots  and  lots  of  money;  all  the  big  girls  will 
be  setting  their  caps  for  him  when  he  grows  up.  I 
heard  Mrs.  Rivington  tell  her  little  Eva  so  the  other 
day,  at  the  dancing-class.  Eva  is  so  stupid.  She 
wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  a  cap,  and  how  it  was 
going  to  be  set.  And  I  explained  just  what  her 
mother  meant.  I  happened  to  be  passing,  on  Dickey 
Van  Horn's  arm,  at  the  time;  and  then  I  heard  two 
or  three  of  the  other  mammas  laugh,  and  one  of  them 
said:  '•She'll  hold  her  own,  some  day,'  meaning  — 
me,  of  course.  Hold  my  own!  I  should  think  I 
would ! "  And  Lulu  gave  her  slender  little  body  a 
whirling  turn  that  made  her  look  for  an  instant  not 
unlike  that  pirouetting  fairy  they  used  to  put  on  the 
old-fashioned  Christmas  plum-cakes. 

She  had  been  engaged  by  young  Van  Dam  to  lead 
the  cotillon  with  him  that  afternoon ;  or  rather,  she 
had  indicated  in  a  gracious,  managerial  way  that  this 
would  be  the  most  advisable  plan.  Monsieur  Duprez, 
the  head  of  the  dancing-school,  and  his  sister,  Madame 
Chantillon,  had  become  Lulu's  willing  slaves.  As  her 
brother  Peyster  expressed  it,  "Now,  she  bosses  things, 
now,  Lulu  does,"  and  Peyster  was  assuredly  right. 

She  had  even  considered  with  her  preceptor  all  the 
different  figures  that  were  to  be  led,  and  her  privi- 
leged eyes  alone  had  prematurely  gazed  upon  the 
glowing  and  tasteful  favors  after  their  purchase.  She 
intended  to  look  her  very  best  that  day,  she  had 
informed  the  two  nurses  who  would  assist  her  at  her 
toilet.  "  There  won't  be  many  girls  there  much  older 
than  I  am,"  she  had  said,  "  and  I  mean  to  cut  them 


320  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

out  completely.  Oh,  dear,  how  I  wish  they  only 
would  mention  our  affairs  in  the  papers,  and  describe 
how  we  were  dressed.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  one  must  have 
patience ;  all  that  is  sure  to  come  later,  when  one 
really  goes  out  into  society." 

She  had  been  greatly  excited  all  through  the  morn- 
ing; but  it  chanced  to  be  Saturday,  and  hence  was 
not  a  day  of  study  with  her.  At  about  eleven  o'clock 
she  was  handed  by  one  of  the  servants  a  bouquet  of 
the  rarest  roses,  with  a  card  attached  to  it,  bearing 
the  name  of  Mr.  Charlton  Van  Dam.  If  Elaine's 
friend,  Lord  Scarletcoat,  could  have  heard  the  little 
scream  of  pride  and  pleasure  with  which  Lulu  seized 
this  enchanting  nosegay,  he  would  hardly  have  re- 
versed his  previous  unjust  opinion  as  to  there  being 
no  children  in  America. 

When  the  hour  came  for  the  child  to  be  dressing, 
she  discovered  with  dismay  that  her  two  sisters  and 
her  mother  would  all  be  absent.  They  had  visits  to 
pay,  or  engagements  of  a  similiar  sort.  Elaine,  just 
before  departing,  gave  Lulu  a  quizzical  look  of  amaze- 
ment as  she  said: 

"  The  idea,  Lulu,  of  your  expecting  that  we  would 
stay  in  to  see  your  frock  put  on  1  It  is  too  absurd. 
...  If  I  only  had  my  way  with  you,  I'd  stop  all  this 
vanity  and  nonsense  by  sending  you  up  to  the  Park 
with  your  nurse,  and  letting  you  breathe  fresh  air  and 
get  some  healthful  exercise." 

"Pooh!"  cried  Lulu,  disdainfully.  "I  see  more  of 
the  Park  than  you  do,  Elly.  I  rode  six  or  seven  miles 
there  yesterday.  My  riding-school  teacher  says  I'm 
the  bravest  and  best  young  rider,  of  my  sex,  that 
he  has." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  321 

Emnieline,  who  was  always  kinder  to  her  preco- 
cious little  sister  than  was  Elaine,  and  who  chanced 
also  to  be  present,  just  then,  here  broke  into  an 
amused  laugh.  "Which  means,  Lulu,"  she  said, 
"  that  you  ride  very  well  for  a  little  girl.  Why 
are  you  so  afraid  of  being  called  a  little  girl  ?  Some 
day  you'll  be  sorry  nobody  can  possibly  call  you  one 
any  longer." 

Lulu  gave  a  short,  self-satisfied  nod.  "No  doubt," 
she  returned.  "I  want  the  time  to  come  when  I  shall 
be  sorry  ;  that's  all." 

"  You  do  too  many  things,"  said  her  mother,  who 
had  entered  a  few  minutes  ago  and  had  been  quietly 
listening,  not  far  from  the  doorway.  "It's  your 
papa's  idea  that  riding  agrees  with  you ;  it's  not 
mine.  But  you've  those  red  spots  in  your  cheeks 
now,  my  dear,  which  show  that  you  are  ner- 
vous." 

"Oh,  I'm  always  nervous,"  said  Lulu,  wheeling  her 
tiny  figure  about.  "  I'm  a  nervous  constitution." 

The  three  ladies  exchanged  glances  that  showed 
how  comic  they  thought  this  admission  from  so 
ridiculously  youthful  an  authority  ;  and  Lulu  swept 
over  all  their  faces  a  covert  look,  revealing  the  most 
unchildish  self-consciousness.  She  wanted  to  see 
whether  she  had  not  said  something  diverting  and 
extraordinary  for  one  of  her  years.  Among  the 
many  faulty  features  of  her  unhappy  education, 
was  this  tendency  on  the  part  of  her  elders  to  en- 
courage her  in  the 'habit  of  imitating  their  own  forms 
of  phraseology.  Eager  to  be  thought  "old  for  her 
age,"  she  was  pei'petually  having  this  unwholesome 
craving  fostered  instead  of  repressed  by  those  very 


322  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

observers  of  it  who  should  have  been  the  first  to  con- 
demn its  indulgence. 

Her  mother,  Emmeline  and  Elaine  soon  afterward 
left  her.  She  was  alone  with  the  two  nurses  at  the 
commencement  of  her  elaborate  toilet. 

"Je  suis  un  peu  fatiguee"  she  suddenly  said  to 
Fran9oise,  her  favorite,  after  the  process  of  frizzing 
her  lovely  golden  locks  had  been  completed  before  a 
large  mirror.  "  J^ai  mal  a  la  tete,  Franpoise  ;  peut- 
etre  c'est  nne  espece  de  neuralgie.  J^ai  remarque  que 
maman  et  mes  soeurs  souffrent  comme  pa,  de  temps  en 
temps.  Ce  n'est  rien  ;  fa  passera,  fen  suis  sfire" 

But  it  did  not  go  away.  In  a  short  time  there 
came  upon  the  child  what  she  piteously  described  as 
a  raging  headache ;  she  used  even  in  her  pain  the 
modes  of  speech  caught  from  others  far  older  than 
herself.  Her  eyes  began  to  shine  with  a  feverishly 
unnatural  light.  The  two  nurses  looked  at  each  other 
in  alarm. 

" Mademoiselle  se  trouve  malade"  murmured  one. 

"  Vraiementf"  faltered  the  other. 

"  I'm  not  ill,"  asserted  Lulu.  She  had  not  yet  put 
on  her  brilliant  beribboned  frock.  But  she  went 
toward  it,  where  it  lay,  bright  as  a  sunset  cloud, 
upon  the  bed.  "  I  tell  you  it's  only  a  headache,  and 
it  makes  me  a  little  dizzy.  I  —  I  had  one,  something 
like  it,  the  other  day  at  dancing-school ;  but  it  passed 
off;  it  didn't  last  as  long  as  this,  and  it  didn't  make 
me  so  dizzy.  .  .  .  But  this  will  pass  off,  too.  .  .  .  Ah, 
my  dress  —  my  beautiful  dress.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  as  her  voice  grew  husky,  she  reeled, 
while  one  of  the  nurses  sprang  to  her.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  was  the  first  of  the  absent  ones 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  323 

to  return.  She  had  taken  "mamma's  coupe"  and  had 
been  shopping  a  little,  and  calling  a  little  at  the 
houses  of  various  friends.  She  had  spent  money, 
and  talked  scandal  over  more  than  a  single  cup  of 
tea,  served  her  in  the  most  delicate  of  china.  She 
could  not  have  told  you  in  which  occupation  she 
found  the  most  enjoyable  desceuvrement,  but  spend- 
ing money,  talking  scandal  and  drinking  tea  were  all 
very  pleasurable  pastimes. 

Her  young  son,  Peyster,  met  her  in  the  hall  as  she 
entered  it.  His  eyes  were  red  with  crying.  "Oh, 
mamma ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  ran  toward  her,  seizing 
her  dress. 

But  she  repulsed  him ;  it  was  a  very  handsome  dress, 
and  she  did  not  like  to  have  it  treated  so  roughly,  even 
by  the  son  of  whom,  in  her  way,  she  professed  to  be 
very  fond. 

"Peystey,  what  are  you  doing?"  she  cried.  And 
then  she  saw  what  the  dimness  of  the  hall  had  not  yet 
allowed  her  to  see.  "You're  crying?  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"  Oh,  mamma !     Lulu  !    Now,  she's,  now  .  .  ." 

The  poor  boy  could  say  no  more  for  his  tears. 


324  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XVIII. 

DURING  the  next  half  hour  or  so,  Bleecker  Satter- 
thwaite  and  his  daughters,  Emmeline  and  Elaine,  all 
three  returned.  They  were  all  going  to  dine  out 
somewhere ;  they  had  calculated  their  time  for  dress- 
ing. Emmeline  was  going  to  one  dinner-party,  Elaine 
to  a  second,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  had  a 
similar  engagement  which  necessitated  their  keeping 
it  in  one  another's  company.  As  for  Aspinwall,  he 
had  not  returned  at  all.  It  was  nearly  always  thus 
with  the  members  of  this  mundane  and  insatiably 
pleasure-seeking  household.  Domesticity  was  un- 
known to  them.  Theirs  was  a  home  without  a 
single  home-like  trait.  They  were  a  family  who 
resembled  some  fanatical  priesthood  all  passionately 
employed  in  various  offices  of  pagan  worship.  Their 
temple  was  that  of  fashion,  and  their  rites  were  per- 
formed with  a  truly  sacerdotal  zeal.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  they  reaped  much  enjoyment  from  the 
whole  senseless  cult  —  so  doubly  and  signally  sense- 
less arnid  a  government  that  professes  to  be  lifted  on 
republican  bases  above  the  Old  World  claims  and  pro- 
testations of  caste. 

What  charities  were  undertaken  by  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite or  by  either  of  her  daughters  bore  relation 
solely  to  the  kind  of  co-patrons  who  would  appear 
on  the  same  lists  with  themselves.  Mrs.  Auchincloss 
and  Madeleine  literally,  on  many  occasions,  would 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  325 

seek  the  slums  of  the  city,  personally  acting  as  the 
teachers  and  agents  of  mission-schools  and  various 
other  institutions.  They  were  snobs,  but  snobs  with 
a  religion,  and  as  far  as  their  religion  went,  its  ethical 
effects  were  salutary.  Their  trouble  was  the  old 
Pharisaical  one;  they  penetrated  into  the  most  dole- 
ful purlieus  of  the  "East  side,"  but  it  was  known  in 
Fifth  Avenue  that  they  did  so,  and  their  pilgrimages 
were  not  solitary ;  they  always  made  them  in  the  so- 
ciety of  ladies  who,  whether  young  or  old,  were  incon- 
testably  dans  le  monde.  In  fact,  neither  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs  nor  Madeleine  would  have  thought  herself  quite 
as  socially  secure  without  her  charities  as  with  thorn. 
They  were  a  part  of  "  duty,"  and  not  to  have  a  code 
of  duty  which  you  practically  and  rigorously  respected 
was,  in  their  belief,  not  to  be  crowned  with  the  best 
sort  of  gentility.  The  root  of  the  whole  impulse  — 
religious,  no  less  than  eleemosynary  —  may  have  lain 
in  that  one  word,  gentility.  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
that  the  chief  recommendation  of  godliness  in  the  eyes 
of  Madeleine  and  her  mother  was  not  the  highly 
respectable  odor  which  they  considered  to  pervade 
it.  They  prided  themselves,  too,  upon  being  devo- 
tional thinkers.  They  were  always,  in  spite  of  their 
avowed  and  seemingly  adamantine  faith,  reading  some 
book  of  the  many  which  our  curious  age  now  pro- 
duces, wherein  the  defence  of  faith  and  its  diligent 
support  from  metaphysical  sources.,  were  made  the 
subject  of  numberless  eloquent  chapters.  This  month 
they  would  be  "  oh,  so  much  interested  "  in  "  that  en- 
chanting volume,"  "  Science  as  the  Confirmation  of 
Scripture,"  and  next  month  they  would  own  to  an 
equal  admiration  for  "  that  wonderfully  comforting 


326  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

series  of  essays,"  "Modern  Thought  as  the  Hand- 
maid of  Revelation."  Mr.  Auchincloss  and  the 
blameless  Chichester  would  appear  to  share  their 
esteem  for  works  of  this  description.  Mrs.  Auchin- 
closs would  now  and  then  say  :  "  My  husband  has 
been  so  absorbed,  lately,  in  the  delightful  book,"  or 
Madeleine  would  declare :  "  My  brother,  Chichester, 
tells  me  that  he  has  never  read  anything  at  once  so 
logical  and  so  cheering." 

With  the  Satterthwaites  it  had  all  been  markedly 
different.  Their  world  was  not  the  world  of  books, 
and  they  would  as  soon  have  occupied  their  superficial, 
butterfly  existences  with  the  evidences  of  Christian 
creeds,  from  Methodism  to  the  last  decision  of  the 
(Ecumenical  Council,  as  they  would  have  questioned 
the  advisability  of  mounting  a  tantivy  coach  or  the 
wisdom  of  playing  lawn-tennis.  They  accepted  both 
modes  of  diversion,  just  as  they  accepted  the  rather 
tiresome  but  wholly  proper  occupation  of  aristocratic 
almsgiving.  They  lived  solely  for  personal  enjoy- 
ment; but  since  others,  who  lived  just  as  they  did, 
had  conceded  that  it  was  "the  thing"  to  show  some 
heed  for  those  disagreeable  hundreds  of  thousands 
who  made  up  the  lower  strata  of  society,  they  treated 
such  a  popular  drift  of  taste  as  though  it  had  been  a 
new  shade  in  bonnet-strings  or  a  prevalent  caprice  in 
the  tying  of  them. 

They  were  all  keenly  shocked  on  discovering  the 
illness  of  Lulu.  Mr.  Satterthwaite  and  his  daughters 
entered  the  little  girl's  chamber  to  find  her  mother, 
the  nurses  and  two  physicians  grouped  about  the  bed- 
side, while  Peyster,  with  an  awed  look  on  his  dull, 
hobbledehoy ish  face,  sat  quite  still  in  one  corner. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  327 

Lulu  was  fearfully  ill ;  it  soon  become  apparent  to 
the  whole  family  that  this  was  the  case.  Her  trouble 
was  a  brain  congestion  of  sharp  violence.  The  physi- 
cians were  loth  to  administer  narcotics  except  in  the 
smallest  quantities,  and  these  appeared  thus  far  to 
accelerate  rather  than  retard  her  disorder.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  she  now  grew  hourly  worse.  Fits  of 
coma  would  be  succeeded  by  bursts  of  delirium,  in 
which  her  lips,  hot  with  sudden  fever,  would  let  fall 
pell-mell  sentences  of  the  most  pathetic  mania. 

And  it  all  bore  incessant  reference  to  the  unnatu- 
rally strained,  gay,  frivolous  life  that  she  had  been 
permitted  to  live ! 

"Mamma,"  she  would  suddenly  cry,  seeking  to  lift 
herself  from  the  bed,  with  glassy,  staring  eyes  and  a 
face  flushed  crimson  amid  her  yellow  wealth  of  hair  — 
"  Mamma,  I  shall  be  late  for  the  dancing-class !  And 
you  knoic  I'm  to  lead  the  cotillon  —  I've  told  you  so 
fifty  times!  .  .  .  Who's  that  girl  in  my  dress?  Make 
her  take  it  off!  Is  it  Sally  Van  Dam?"  (Then  a 
wild,  shrill  laugh  that  pierced  her  hearers.)  "  Oh,  if 
it's  only  Sally,  I  don't  care.  She  is  Charity's  sister. 
.  .  .  But  none  of  the  other  girls  shall  dance  with 
Charity.  .  .  .  He  and  I  are  to  lead  together.  On 
horseback,  too!  Isn't  it  nice  and  queer?  A  German 
in  the  Park  —  on  horseback!  Yes,  Monsieur  Duprez 
said  it  was  all  right.  .  .  ."  (Then  a  shivering  moan  of 
terror  and  a  glare  of  untold  affright  from  the  poor, 
dilated  eyes.)  "Oh,  look!  look!  One  of  the  horses 
is  dancing  all  wrong.  He's  —  he's  gone  mad.  .  .  . 
It's  Peystey's  black  pony;  he  wants  to  kill  Bessie 
Ludlow.  .  .  .  He'll  trample  her  to  death.  .  .  .  Pey- 
stey!  Can't  you  manage  him!  Can't  you!  Ah! 


328  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

it's  all  over !  He's  killed  her !  "  (And  then  plaintive 
shrieks,  these  ending  in  convulsions  that  gave  the  frail 
limbs  an  almost  unearthly  strength.) 

By  about  ten  o'clock  that  night  she  woke  from  one 
of  her  stupors,  calling  out :  "  Oh,  I'm  blind !  I'm 
blind ! " 

It  was  true.  There  had  been  some  suffusion  of  the 
visual  nerve-centres,  and  from  that  moment  sight  was 
hopelessly  paralyzed. 

And  then  a  most  bitter  thing  happened.  Mrs. 
Satterthwaite,  trembling  with  distress,  bent  down  and 
clasped  the  terrified  child  in  her  arms.  "Lulu!"  she 
cried,  perhaps  addressing  her  little  girl  with  the  first 
true  motherly  accent  that  she  had  ever  yet  heard  from 
maternal  lips  :  "Lulu!  Don't  be  frightened !  I'm  here. 
Mamma's  here.  Don't  you  know  mamma?" 

But  the  child  pushed  her  away,  and  rose  up  from 
the  bed  with  both  arms  gropingly  outstretched,  as 
though  her  lost  sight  were  hiding  from  her  somewhere 
near  by  and  she  sought  to  regain  it.  The  mother's 
embrace  of  consolation  and  protection  was  futile  and 
meaningless  to  her.  What  did  she,  poor  sufferer, 
know  of  such  love  as  that  ?  A  pat  on  the  cheek,  or  a 
stroke  of  the  curls,  now  and  then  —  a  nod,  a  smile,  or 
a  laugh,  when  she  delivered  any  of  her  bold,  shrewd, 
quaint  sayings  —  an  occasional  frown,  lifted  finger  or 
biting  word  of  reprimand  —  this  child  knew  her  mother 
by  these  and  similar  tokens,  but  by  these  alone.  And 
now,  in  the  ordeal  of  horror  and  pain,  there  was  no 
sweet  magic  and  magnetism  of  affection  to  claim  her 
instinctive  response.  The  arms  that  leaned  to  clasp 
her  had  no  familiar  feeling;  the  bosom  that  would 
have  pillowed  her  head  bore  no  recollected  warmth. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  329 

"It  must  be  that  I'm  dying!"  she  shrieked.  "The 
darkness  must  be  that !  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  die !  I 
want  to  live !  It's  horrible  to  die,  and  turn  all  white 
and  stiff,  and  be  put  in  a  dark  grave !  And  I  love 
so  to  dance,  and  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  wear 
nice  clothes!  .  .  .  What  is  it  that  makes  me  blind? 
Oh,  can't  somebody  tear  the  blackness  out  of  my 
eyes?  .  .  ." 

Poignant  as  was  all  this  for  those  who  observed  it, 
mercy  at  least  lay  in  the  fact  of  its  not  lasting  very 
long.  A  swoon  followed  what  had  perhaps  been  the 
most  agonizing  of  Lulu's  outbursts,  and  for  a  long 
time  she  lay  so  pale  and  still  that  her  watchers  antici- 
pated death  at  any  instant.  But  just  before  death, 
came  re-awakened  consciousness,  and  while  a  shudder 
ran  through  the  group  at  the  bedside  because  they 
feared  a  repetition  of  the  lamentable  scenes  just 
enacted,  Lulu  opened  her  still  sightless  eyes  and  began 
to  babble  fragmentary  sentences  that  soon  told  their 
own  dreamy  and  sombre  story.  .  .  .  She  was  at 
dancing-school  —  at  the  grand  fete  that  afternoon, 
from  which,  hours  ago,  a  messenger  had  been  hurried 
with  dismay,  to  learn  what  detained  herself  and  her 
brother.  .  .  .  Now  she  sat  beside  Charity  Van  Dam 
and  smelled  the  bouquet  he  had  sent  her,  and  told  him 
how  lovely  she  thought  the  flowers,  and  how  kind  it 
was  for  him  to  send  her  such  a  real  grown-up  bouquet. 
.  .  .  Again,  she  would  be  in  the  mazes  of  a  cotillon- 
figure,  prompting  some  fellow-dancer  who  was  more 
dull  of  wit  than  herself,  or  less  nimble  of  foot.  .  .  . 
And  at  last  she  would  seem  to  be  in  soft  wonder  and 
perplexity  why  the  fete  had  not  begun.  "Everything 
is  ready,  Monsieur  Duprez,"  she  would  murmur.  .  .  . 


330  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  Where's  the  music  ?  We  are  all  here  in  our  places. 
.  .  .  Why  don't  the  musicians  play  for  us?" 

But  the  musicians  had  played,  poor  little  absentee, 
and  you  were  not  there  to  hear  them!  The  lights 
have  all  gone  out;  the  ball-room  is  silent  and  deserted; 
the  children  are  home  and  in  bed.  They  missed  you 
very  much.  They  heard  with  surprised  and  startled 
looks  that  you  were  ill  and  could  not  come.  But  they 
did  not  even  fancy  that  you  would  never  come  again, 
with  your  eyes  that  danced  as  gayly  as  your  pretty 
beribboned  toes  did,  and  your  face  as  old  and  thought- 
ful in  one  way  as  it  was  young  and  bloomy  in  another! 

Somewhere  near  midnight,  Lulu's  babblings  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  like  those  of  a  brook  that  has  lost 
its  path  among  alien  pebbles  and  can  trill  but  in  the 
thinnest  of  voices  what  melody  it  has  borne  from  its 
urn  up  among  the  hills.  No  complaint  about  her  own 
blindness  had  fallen  from  her  lips  for  a  long  time. 
She  was  very  peaceable,  with  the  cool  white  cloths 
laid  and  re-laid  against  the  temples  that  had  burned 
and  throbbed  so.  But  they  did  not  burn  or  throb 
now.  For  many  minutes  she  would  not  speak  at  all, 
and  then  the  words  that  sounded  from  her  would  seem 
to  have  no  more  significance  than  the  tender  cooings 
of  a  pigeon  by  its  cote.  But  when  the  end  was  very 
close  at  hand  indeed,  a  smile  broke  like  light  about 
her  lips,  and  a  dim  flash  came  into  the  blind  eyes  just 
before  they  dropped  their  lids  in  rest  forever.  All 
who  stood  at  her  bedside  could  plainly  hear  what  she 
then  said. 

"  Oh,  now  we're  going  to  begin.  .  .  .  There's  the 
music!  How  merry  it  sounds!"  Perhaps  she  caught 
the  strains  of  a  finer  music  than  earthly  flutes  and 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  331 

viols  can  make.  But  if  truly  she  had  heard  such 
harmonies,  her  spirit  went  nearer  to  where  they  soared 
and  floated,  not  ever  returning  to  the  small,  placid 
little  body  whence  it  had  flown  on  its  far-away  adven- 
ture and  quest.  No  one  was  ever  to  know  what  Lulu 
had  vanished  to  find.  Though  the  great  city  where 
she  had  lived  her  brief  span  of  days  might  crumble 
into  the  time-spurned  ruin  of  another  Thebes,  through 
all  its  multitudinous  morrows  the  light  that  she  had 
seen  and  the  music  to  which  she  had  hearkened  would 
remain  as  two  more  drops  of  gloom  in  the  vast  ocean 
of  secresy  we  name  death !  For,  every  life  that  the 
mighty  shadow  takes  into  itself  is  bathed  by  an  equal 
dusk,  and  one  same  dignity  of  mystery  clings  about  all 
who  have  sunk  into  its  unsurrendering  tides  —  the 
pure  as  the  sinful,  the  lofty  as  the  lowly,  the  old, 
white  with  years,  and  the  young,  yet  scathless  under 
their  goads ! 

After  all  was  over,  the  family  met,  one  by  one,  in 
the  large  drawing-rooms  below  stairs ;  but  two  of  its 
members  remained  absent  —  Aspinwall,  who  had  not 
yet  come  home,  and  Peyster,  whose  sobs  the  nurses 
were  seeking  to  quiet,  and  whom  everybody  save 
these  had  forgotten.  The  drawing-rooms  were  per- 
vaded with  preparations  for  the  never-to-be-held  Sat- 
terthwaite  ball.  It  would  have  occurred  on  Monday  ; 
to-morrow  would  be  Sunday,  and  as  such  woi-k,  for 
so-called  holy  reasons,  must  cease  even  in  this  secular 
household,  arrangements  had  been  fully  completed 
before  dark  on  Saturday  evening.  The  floors  were 
neatly  covered  with  glossy  linen  "crash"  for  dancing; 
the  furniture  had  been  set  close  to  the  wall  or  else 
removed  altogether;  the  mantels  were  stripped  both 


332  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

of  drapery  and  ornament,  waiting  their  burdens  of 
bedded  flowers.  The  apartments  were  not  brightly 
lit ;  they  had  a  ghostly,  staring,  comfortless  look ; 
and  to  the  people  who  now  gathered  in  them  their 
aspect  was  horrible.  As  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite,  Emmeline  and  Elaine,  they  sat  and  gazed  at 
one  another,  above  the  pale  glare  of  those  wide,  long 
floors,  in  a  senseless,  blank,  stupefied  way.  You  might 
have  detected  a  kind  of  irritated  hauteur,  too,  in  the 
expressions  of  their  faces  —  noticeably  in  that  of 
Bleecker  Satterthwaite  himself.  Perhaps  it  seemed 
to  this  family  as  if  death  had  smitten  them  with  an 
unwonted  insolence  in  thus  at  all  abruptly  afflicting 
them.  As  for  grief,  they  did  not  appear  to  know  how 
one  should  show  it.  Possibly  they  were  too  stunned, 
just  yet,  to  realize  its  existence  in  their  souls.  They 
had  never  given  much  heed  to  the  question  of  souls. 
There  had  always  been  something  brassy  and  flaunting 
about  the  completeness  of  their  materialism.  They 
had  thought  considerably  more  concerning  the  welfare 
of  horses  than  that  of  their  fellow-creatures.  They 
had  always  found  a  stable  more  congenial  quarters 
than  a  library  —  this  being  as  true  of  "papa"  and 
Aspinwall  as  it  was  of  the  two  grown-up  girls. 

Aspinwall  had  not  been  home  since  luncheon  time, 
and  might  very  possibly  have  drifted  into  some  gay 
company  of  college-friends.  Nobody  had  known  where 
to  find  him ;  he  had  left  no  orders  with  his  valet ;  and 
there  were  certain  rare  occasions  when  even  one  with 
whom  dress  was  so  much  afaible  as  with  Aspinwall 
Satterthwaite,  did  not  feel  himself  compelled  to  attire 
himself  for  dinner. 

Midnight  had  sounded  some  little  time  ago.     They 


OLIVIA   LELAPLAINE.  333 

all  had  tacitly  conceded,  while  sitting  there  in  the  big 
shadowy  room,  that  they  were  waiting  for  "Aspy"  to 
come  home.  Mr.  Satterthwaite  had  begun  to  pace 
the  long  apartments  with  hands  clasped  behind  him 
and  lowered  head.  Emmeline  cried  a  little,  now  and 
then.  Her  sister  Elaine  would  turn  and  look  at  her 
very  seriously  as  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  drew  short- 
ened, sobbing  breaths.  Elaine  did  not  feel  like  crying. 
Her  tears  had  never  flowed  except  for  selfish  causes, 
and  seldom  even  for  those.  It  was  not  that  she  failed 
to  mourn,  but  rather  that  a  dazed  and  clouded  sensa- 
tion had  come  upon  her  faculties.  Such  a  calamitous 
event  as  this  which  had  befallen  herself  and  her  kin- 
dred arrived  in  the  guise  of  so  bewildering  a  novelty ! 
Death  had  always  been  to  her  a  possibility  clad  with 
remoteness.  Of  course  it  might  enter  their  house  one 
day.  But  it  would  give  premonitory  rumors  of  its 
hateful  advance.  There  was  so  much  time  in  which 
to  become  prepared  for  that;  and  meanwhile  there 
were  all  the  pleasurable  pursuits,  with  inestimable 
bodily  health  added,  to  sum  up,  to  adorn,  to  merrily 
intensify  life.  Elaine  had  not  dreamed  of  scanning 
the  whole  problem  deeper.  To  her  it  was  not  a  prob- 
lem at  all,  but  a  festivity.  She  had  thus  far  had  her 
choice  of  cultivating  or  ignoring  its  guests.  This 
black  one,  thrusting  itself  into  her  notice  and  insisting 
that  it  should  not  be  treated  de  haut  en  bas,  thrilled 
her  with  an  unprecedented  terror. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite  remained  motionless  in  her  chair. 
She  realized  more  piercingly  this  night  that  she  was  a 
mother  than  the  worst  pains  of  child  birth  had  ever 
taught  her  to  realize  before.  Her  thoughts  had  flown 
to  Aspinwall,  her  eldest  son,  loved  beyond  all  her 


334  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

other  children  by  a  heart  which  too  often  had  let  her 
only  vaguely  know  that  she  in  reality  loved  any  of 
them  overmuch.  At  intervals  she  would  lift  her  head, 
as  if  listening  for  a  sound  in  the  outer  hall.  The 
sound  for  which  she  listened  was  the  turning  of  a 
latch-key  in  the  lock  of  the  front  door. 

At  last  she  felt  sure  that  she  heard  it,  and  suddenly 
rose.  Her  husband  paused  in  his  monotonous  walk. 
She  glided  toward  the  large  main  doorway  of  the 
drawing-rooms. 

"  That  is  Aspy,  now,"  the  others  heai'd  her  say ; 
and  then  she  disappeared  into  the  hall.  Frigid  woman 
of  the  world  as  she  had  always  been,  her  spirit  of 
motherhood  now  yearned  with  an  immense  longing  to 
clasp  her  favorite  boy  against  her  breast  and  be  the 
first  who  should  break  the  tidings  of  his  little  sister's 
death. 

A  minute  or  so  later  they  who  were  in  the  drawing- 
room  heard  a  faint  cry.  All  three,  in  an  instant, 
gathered  at  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

They  saw  Aspinwall  standing  in  the  hall  with  a 
shamed  leer  on  his  face  and  a  sagging  laxity  of  post- 
ure that  swiftly  told  its  brutal  tale. 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  pale  and  convulsed,  motioned 
with  one  hand  for  them  to  leave  her  alone  beside  her 
son.  The  father  and  the  two  sisters  drew  backward. 
There  was  a  potency  of  appeal  in  the  look  of  that  wife 
and  mother  which  neither  of  them  could  resist. 

Still,  while  he  receded,  an  oath  of  exasperation  broke 
from  Bleecker  Satterthwaite. 

But  Emmeline,  whom  they  had  been  wont  to  laugh 
at  in  other  days  for  her  moods  of  so-termed  sentimen- 
tality, sprang  toward  her  father  now. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  335 

"  Papa,"  she  cried,  "  don't  judge  him  too  harshly ! 
Remember  how  we,  who  are  all  older  than  he  is,  have 
never  taught  him  to  feel  the  disgrace  of  it  as  we 
should  have  done!  And  yoii,  papa  —  would  you  have 
cared  so  much,  after  all,  if  it  had  not  been  ...  to- 
night?" 

Satterthwaite  did  not  alone  hear  these  words.  His 
wife,  there  in  the  near  hall,  heard  them  as  well.  Who 
shall  say  what  an  arrow  of  repi'oach  they  became,  to 
cleave  the  conscience  of  either  blameful  parent? 

The  news  of  little  Lulu's  death  gave  a  sharp  shock 
to  hundreds  of  the  Satterthwaites'  friends.  But  it 
may  be  said  to  have  acted  most  tellingly  upon  the 
very  destiny  of  Olivia  and  her  husband.  Still,  it  is 
supposable,  on  general  principles  of  deduction,  that 
Delaplaine  would  finally  have  yielded.  But  he  would 
not  have  done  so  until,  as  the  phrase  goes,  the  last  gun 
had  been  fired.  He  would  have  waited  for  concession 
from  Olivia,  knowing  how  radically  her  present  as- 
sumptive position  would  be  weakened  the  moment  she 
betrayed  fear  of  consequences. 

As  it  was,  Delaplaine  hailed  the  non-occurrence  of 
the  Satterthwaite  ball  for  a  priceless  piece  of  luck. 
He  was  now  enabled  to  maintain  his  reputation  as  an 
unflinching  opponent  of  contumacy.  But  a  few  days 
after  Lulu's  death  had  changed  everything,  Olivia 
surprised  him  by  saying : 

"  I  wish  to  have  a  full  understanding  with  you  on 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Massereene."  Her  tones  were  all 
steadiness  and  self-command  ;  her  blue  eyes  met  his 
with  an  unfaltering  fixity. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  preparing  himself.     Almost  any  other 


336  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

man  would  have  started  with  an  irrepressible  embar- 
rassment. Delaplaine  only  delivered  himself  of  this 
ruminative  "Ah,"  and  leaned  farther  back  in  the  big 
leathern  chair  of  his  study,  where  Olivia  had  found 
him.  "  I  imagined  that  we  had  reached  a  full  under- 
standing on  that  subject  already,"  he  coolly  went  on. 

"Then  you  were  mistaken,"  returned  Olivia. 

"Mistaken?"  He  did  start,  now,  although  his  not 
doing  so  was  merely  pretension.  "  I  assure  you  I  had 
entirely  made  up  my  mind  to  the  contrary.  I  had 
told  you  my  wishes ;  you  had  very  hotly  refused  to 
follow  them.  But  I  had  not  the  least  fear  that  you 
would  not  follow  them  when  the  time  came." 

Olivia  threw  back  her  head  a  little.  The  damask 
slipped  up  into  her  cheeks,  and  a  glitter  pricked  its 
rays  through  the  calm  of  her  eyes. 

"In  that  case,"  she  replied,  with  plain  scorn,  "it 
may  have  been  just  as  well  for  your  peace  of  mind 
that  the  time  did  not  come." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  have  disobeyed  me?" 

"  I  would  have  disobeyed  you,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
put  it.  There  is  not  the  faintest  doubt  on  that  point." 

He  stroked  his  chin,  smiling  in  a  frozen  way. 
ftYour  determination,  courage,  firmness  —  whatever 
you  choose  to  call  it,  my  dear  Olivia  —  might  have 
failed  you  at  the  last  moment." 

"  It  would  not  have  failed  me." 

"Ah,  you  tell  me  so  now"  he  drawled. 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  space,  standing  there  at 
his  side.  He  saw  with  the  corner  of  his  eye  that  she 
was  biting  her  underlip,  and  it  gave  him  a  pang  of 
malicious  delight  to  perceive  that  he  had  irritated  her 
honest,  brave  nature  anew. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  337 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  drop  Mr.  Massereene's  ac- 
quaintance?" she  presently  asked.  "Because  if  you 
do  there  had  best  be  an  immediate  understanding 
between  us.  I  —  " 

But  Delaplaine  had  now  sat  up  in  his  chair,  lifted 
both  shoulders,  then  lifted  both  hands,  and,  turning 
toward  his  wife,  had  shown  her  a  countenance  pos- 
sessed by  so  much  vivid  surprise  that  she  involuntarily 
became  silent  with  surprise  correspondent. 

Ever  since  receiving  intelligence  that  there  would 
be  no  ball  at  the  Satterthwaites',  he  had  felt  certain 
that  his  own  sanction  of  Massereene's  further  acquaint- 
ance with  his  wife  must  become  a  question  at  issue 
between  them.  His  jealousy  was  now  much  stronger 
than  it  had  been ;  the  rebellion  of  Olivia  had  fed  it 
into  full-grown,  viperish  thrift.  He  believed  that  his 
wife  loved  Massereene,  and  all  the  wiliest  duplicities  of 
which  he  was  inwardly  master  found  themselves  on  a 
sudden  summoned  together  by  the  most  imperative 
little  roll-call.  He  would  never  have  forbidden  Olivia 
to  dance  the  German  with  her  friend  if  he  had  been  as 
jealous  then  as  he  was  jealous  now  —  if  he  bad  wanted 
then  to  discover  what  he  now  wanted  to  discover. 
At  present  he  was  bent  upon  watching  every  slightest 
feature  of  their  intercourse.  No  detail  should  be 
trivial  enough  to  escape  him ;  fame  se  mele  d,  tout. 
Once  empowered  with  proof  of  her  infatuation,  he 
would  be  able  to  control  Olivia  as  he  desired.  She 
might  brave  him  to-day,  but  if  to-morrow  she  were 
detected  in  a  compromising  attachment,  he  was  confi- 
dent of  knowing  her  character  too  well  not  to  antici- 

O 

pate  as  a  certainty  her  pliant  and  alarmed  humiliation. 
"  She  would  never  take  the  foolish  plunge  that  some 


338  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

women  take,"  he  reflected.     "  She  misftt  look  over  the 

7  O 

edge  of  the  precipice,  but  she  wouldn't  jump.  I  un- 
derstand her  too  thoroughly  not  to  be  sure  of  that." 

The  truth  was,  his  tingling,  senile-savored  jealousy 
prevented  in  him  the  least  lucid  judgment  of  what  she 
might  or  might  not  do.  Olivia  moved  before  him, 
daily  and  hourly,  as  spotless  as  ever  wife  could  be, 
and  morally  incapable  of  even  dreaming  the  misdeeds 
that  his  inflamed  fancy  needed  but  a  mild  incentive  to 
.lay  at  her  door.  She  was  obdurate,  unswerving,  in 
her  new  course  of  action  —  that  and  that  only.  She 
would  either  live  her  life  beneath  his  roof  as  a  gentle- 
woman whose  honor  rose  above  aspersion,  whose  de- 
cent social  privileges  resented  vulgar  molestation,  or 
she  would  seek  refuge  and  freedom  elsewhere.  She 
was  implacably  unwilling  to  give  up  the  right  of  re- 
ceiving Jasper  Massereene  whenever  he  might  care  to 
visit  her.  If  Delaplaine  meant  to  push  his  objections 
beyond  that  boundary  at  which  circumstance  had 
lately  compelled  him  to  pause,  she  desired  enlighten- 
ment concerning  his  intentions ;  and  for  this  reason 
she  had  quietly,  intrepidly,  sought  the  interview  now 
in  progress. 

Its  new  turn,  on  her  husband's  part,  astonished  her 
as  she  observed  and  followed  it. 

"Do  /wish  you  to  drop  Mr.  Mnssereene's  acquaint- 
ance?" he  gently  cried,  repeating  her  own  words. 
"Pray,  have  I  ever  given  you  the  least  excuse  for 
thinking  that  I  wanted  you  to  do  anything  of  this 
preposterous  kind  ?  Can't  you  see  the  difference  be- 
tween behaving  civilly  to  a  nice,  gentlemanlike  fellow, 
as  I  admit  Mr.  Massereene  to  be,  and  allowing  the 
idiocy  of  gossip  to  connect  your  name  unpleasantly 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  339 

with  his?  Now  that  Lent  has  come,  and  all  the 
lime-light  glare  of  society  has  been  extinguished 
until  another  season  sets  it  blazing  again,  I  haven't, 
of  course,  the  vaguest  objection  to  your  receiving  the 
man  as  often  as  you  please."  Here  Delaplaine  took 
off  his  eyeglasses  and  began  to  polish  them  with 
leisurely  touches.  "  God  bless  my  soul,  Olivia ! 
what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  An  Othello  ?  Ask 
Massereene  to  dinner,  some  day,  if  you  like.  I  can't 
conceive  why  you  shouldn't.  He's  excessively  clever. 
We  don't  agree  on  some  points,  but  I  haven't  met 
any  one  in  an  age  who  impressed  me  with  being  a 
better  thinker  or  a  more  interesting  talker.  .  .  ." 

Olivia  left  her  husband's  study  that  afternoon  with 
a  distinct  sense  of  victory  and  an  indistinct  sense  of 
adroit  deception.  But  she  shook  the  latter  feeling  off. 
She  told  herself  that  she  should  be  thankful  for  any 
sort  of  respectable  armistice.  It  chanced  that  on  the 
next  afternoon  Massereene  paid  her  a  visit.  While 
they  sat  and  talked  together  in  the  drawing-room, 
Delaplaine  entered.  His  greeting  of  Massereene  was 
faultlessly  courteous,  and  he  sank  into  a  chair  after 
having  extended  it,  while  saying  with  his  most  gra- 
cious air : 

"  So  you  have  reconciled  yourself  to  the  repose  of 
Lent,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  most  willingly,"  answered  Massereene. 
"  But  it  has  begun  gloomily,  as  Mrs.  Delaplaine  and 
I  were  just  telling  one  another." 

"  In  what  way  ?  "  Delaplaine  asked. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  poor  little  Lulu's  funeral 
yesterday,"  said  Olivia. 

Her  husband  broke  into  one  of  his  most  cynical 


340  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

laughs.  It  was  doubtless  true  he  had  of  late  grown 
more  unconventionally  daring  both  as  to  the  bitter 
things  he  uttered  and  as  to  how  he  uttered  them. 
"I  should  scarcely  call  the  death  of  a  child  impor- 
tant enough  to  affect  a  community.  Anybody's  death, 
for  that  matter,  is  really  a  thousandfold  less  important 
than  it  gets  the  credit  of  being." 

"  I  am  with  you  there,"  smiled  Massereene.  "  We 
mortals  magnify  our  own  pettiness.  But  the  Satter- 
thwaites  are  what  would  be  called  an  influential  fam- 
ily, and  so  their  loss  appears  larger  to  those  immedi- 
ately about  them." 

"  And  a  fine  sermon  could  be  preached  from  such  a 
text,"  said  Delaplaine.  "  I  suppose  none  of  the  fash- 
ionable ministers  dare  touch  the  event,  however  dis- 
creetly. It  would  be  an  excellent  thing  if  they 
exchanged  one  of  their  ordinary  dull  discourses  for 
one  with  a  subject  like  that.  The  little  girl  perished 
from  sheer  neglect  in  a  home  crowded  with  luxuries. 
Nobody  had  time  to  think  of  her ;  they  were  all  oc- 
cupied with  trying  to  make  themselves  believe  they 
were  enjoying  themselves.  And  poor  little  Lulu, 
with  the  constitution  and  nerves  of  a  fairy,  watched 
her  elders,  and  thought  it  a  capital  idea  to  do  as  they 
were  doing.  She  did,  and  it  killed  her.  The  Sat- 
terthwaites  are  pleasant  enough  people  to  meet, 
but  .  .  ." 

"  Be  careful,"  interrupted  Olivia  at  this  point. 
"  They  are  Mr.  Massereene's  cousins." 

"  Which  does  not  prevent  my  agreeing  with  Mr. 
Delaplaine,"  hurried  Massereene,  "  as  far  as  he  has 
gone.  I  am  sure  that  he  knows  the  family  much 
better  than  I  do." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  341 

"  I  know  them  very  well  indeed,"  said  Delaplaine. 
"  They  make  the  unhappy  mistake,  I  think,  of  living 
solely  for  outside  appearances.  They  have  brains, 
but  they  never  dream  of  using  them,  and  for  the 
reason  that  most  of  their  acquaintances  are  brainless. 
Hence  they  are  at  times  keenly  bored,  though  their 
loyalty  to  a  fixed  aristocratic  principle  remains  ex- 
treme. If  they  were  a  foreign  family,  with  a  historic 
name,  such  desire  for  ascendancy  might  be  forgiven 
them.  But  we  are  all  commoners  here,  and  intense 
American  self-valuation,  whether  because  of  money 
or  birth,  is  apt  to  recoil  in  ridicule  upon  those  who 
profess  it."  He  paused  now,  and  gave  Massereene 
a  glance  of  direct  scrutiny.  "  This  nonsense  of  caste 
in  New  York  must  have  surprised  you  considerably. 
Or  had  you  heard  of  it  before  you  came  across  ?  " 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  it,"  replied  Massereene ;  "  and 
it  did  not  merely  surprise,  it  grieved  me." 

"  Ah,  you're  patriotic,  then  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  I  was,  at  your  age  —  or  I  fancied  I  was." 

"Perhaps  you  now  only  fancy  you  are  not,"  Masser- 
eene said. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't ;  I'm  sure  that  patriotism  is  merely 
a  grandiose  form  of  selfishness.  It's  astonishing  how 
'  self '  can  be  found  at  the  root  of  all  human  exploits, 
performances,  and  even  so-termed  ideals,  if  we  only 
search  deep  enough." 

Olivia  started  and  looked  at  Massereene.  He  some- 
how returned  her  look,  and  Delaplaine  did  not  miss 
the  interchange. 

"  She  has  told  him  of  my  cold-bloodedness,"  passed 
through  the  mind  of  Olivia's  husband.  "It  is  the 


342  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

next  thing  to  her  telling  him  she  detests  me.  Per- 
haps it  even  went  with  some  such  pretty  disclosure, 
as  a  sort  of  confirming  embellishment." 

Almost  at  once  Massereene  said :  "  The  one  su- 
preme patriotism  is,  of  course,  philanthropy.  All 
our  widest  modern  thinkers  recognize  this  truth. 
But  to  serve  one's  country  while  living,  and  to  die 
for  her  when  occasion  demands,  is  obviously,  I  should 
judge,  the  nearest  that  modern  civilization  will  permit 
us  to  approach  lofty  self-sacrifice." 

"Right,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Olivia.  The  eager  ap- 
probation  in  her  tones  dealt  Delaplaine  a  sting.  He 
smiled  as  he  now  placidly  watched  Massereene,  quite 
ignoring  his  wife's  quick,  impulsive  comment. 

"You  make  me  suspect  you  of  enthusiasm,"  he 
responded,  with  his  voice  like  an  audible  sneer, 
though  his  demeanor  failed  to  betray  the  least  touch 
of  incivility.  "  I  am  always  exceedingly  timid  when 
an  enthusiasm  pops  up  at  me.  I  know  I  shouldn't 
stand  the  faintest  chance  against  one  while  discuss- 
ing such  a  question  as  this.  I  confess  I've  regarded 
it  from  a  very  matter-of-fact  standpoint.  The  soldier 
who  defends  his  country  is  just  as  apt  as  not  to  re- 
ceive wages  for  defending  an  abominable  cruelty  or 
injustice.  In  thousands  of  cases  he  doesn't  care ;  he 
is  too  ignorant  to  care,  and  too  intimately  a  part  of 
that  huge  mechanism,  an  army.  When  he  does  care, 
and  is  an  officer,  he  nearly  always  has  to  go  dancing 
about  as  the  puppet  of  statesmen  and  politicians,  on  a 
wire  long  enough  to  reach  from  their  closets  to  his 
own  battlefield." 

Massereene  shook  his  head  :  "Patriotism  is  not  war, 
though  it  must  too  often  use  war's  weapons." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  343 

"  And  be  thrashed  by  them,  as  well." 

"  Washington  was  not  thrashed." 

"  He  came  near  being  hanged." 

"And  the  elevation  he  reached  is  a  good  many 
times  higher  than  the  highest  scaffold,"  said  Mas- 
sereene,  with  his  sunny  look  and  smile. 

This  rapid  retort,  with  its  not  infelicitous  turn, 
seemed  to  pique  Delaplaine.  "  And  perhaps  a  good 
many  times  higher  than  he  deserved,"  the  latter  said, 
in  tart  semitone. 

"  Deserved  ?  "  Massereene  echoed.  And  then,  with 
a  most  serious  intonation,  he  went  on  :  "  Such  words 
as  these  have  indeed  a  strange  sound  in  America, 
Can  you  possibly  mean  that  Washington  is  not 
worthy  of  great  honor  for  purity  as  for  bravery  ? " 

Delaplaine  began  to  polish  his  eyeglasses.  "  Oh, 
come,"  he  said ;  "  that's  quite  too  leading.  There 
are  still  some  subjects  on  which  a  man  is  compelled 
to  think  with  the  big  crowd.  Otherwise  he  runs  a 
chance  of  being  mobbed  or  lynched.  Liberty  of 
thought  has  here  reached  that  superfine  degree  of 
development.  .  .  ." 

At  this  moment  Olivia  rose  to  receive  another  visi- 
tor, and  not  long  afterward  Massereene  found  occasion 
to  say,  with  lowered  voice,  in  her  ear :  "  Is  there  any- 
thing or  anybody  not  liable  to  the  sneers  of  your  hus- 
band?" 

She  looked  at  him  surprisedly,  and  saw  that  he  was 
annoyed.  "  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  replied, 
almost  stammering,  and  with  still  greater  consterna- 
nation.  She  had  got  to  know  him  quite  well,  and  he 
had  never  before  made  the  least  adverse  allusion  to 
her  husband.  It  somehow  shocked  her  that  he  should 


344  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

do  so  now.  But  she  quickly  recovered  her  former 
equipoise.  After  all,  why  should  he  not  speak  like 
that  ?  Was  it  not  natural,  she  mused,  for  one  of 
Jasper  Massereene's  healthful  and  hopeful  tempera- 
ment to  resent  the  positively  mephitic  and  mildewed 
sentiments  of  Delaplaine  ?  .  .  . 

Weeks  went  by.  Lent  passed,  and  Spring,  having 
first  converted  our  New  York  streets  into  rivers  of 
slush,  froze  them  one  day  so  that  they  glittered  like 
glass,  thawed-  them  again  the  next,  dried  them  up 
with  irrelevant  repentance  after  a  few  more  morrows, 
and  finally  devoted  herself  to  decorating  some  of  the 
trees  in  the  parks  with  buds  that  it  was  uncertain 
whether  she  would  nip  and  blight  before  another 
twenty-four  hours. 

Meanwhile,  Massereene  had  repeatedly  visited  the 
house  in  West  Tenth  Street  and  had  often,  if  by  no 
means  invariably,  met  Delaplaine  on  these  occasions. 
Olivia  still  drew  only  perplexity  from  her  husband's 
politeness.  She  was  yet  waiting  to  ascertain  what 
occult  meaning,  if  any,  lurked  behind  his  hospi- 
table deportment.  Omens  were  somehow  in  the  air, 
and  yet  she  could  gather  from  these  no  palpable 
prophecy. 

In  an  unforeseen  way  she  was  fated  shortly  to  arrive 
at  much  more  satisfying  conclusions.  The  veil  of  her 
uncertainty  was  destined  soon  to  be  rent  with  conse- 
quences of  revelation  no  less  definite  than  sudden. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  345 


XIX. 

THE  Satterthwaites  would  have  been  both  amazed 
and  incensed  if  they  could  have  heard  the  harsh  criti- 
cisms that  Delaplaine  had  passed  upon  them.  They 
had  for  years  looked  upon  the  bachelor  banker  of 
West  Tenth  Street  as  a  staunch  ally  and  supporter; 
and  now  that  he  had  become  the  husband  of  their 
kinswoman,  they  took  it  for  granted  that  he  was 
bound  to  them  with  still  firmer  ties.  Delaplaine's 
contemptuous  opinion  of  their  daily  habits  and  doings, 
however,  in  no  manner  concerned  the  open  homage 
that  he  was  willing  always  to  extend  them.  When, 
some  time  in  May,  he  learned  that  Emmeline  was 
engaged  to  Mr.  Arthur  Plunkett,  he  said  to  his  wife : 

"  We  must  give  the  girl  a  dinner.  She's  your 
cousin,  and  the  Satterthwaites  are  all  in  mourning; 
so  we  'd  better  make  it  a  family  affair  and  invite  those 
soporific  Auchinclosses.  We  will  fill  up  all  deficien- 
cies with  outsiders,  however,  so  as  to  give  a  Jill  to 
every  Jack.  It  ought,  by  the  way,  to  be  a  rather 
handsome  dinner,  because  I  hear  that  Emmeline  is 
marrying  badly." 

In  one  sense  Emmeline  Satterthwaite  was  marrying 
remarkably  well.  Her  fiance  was  a  gentleman,  both 
in  manners  and  aspect.  What  caused  numberless 
pairs  of  eyebrows  to  be  lifted  when  the  engagement 
became  known,  was  the  disti-essing  fact  that  Mr. 
Plunkett  did  not  belong  to  a  family  of  the  slightest 


346  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

note,  and  yet  presented  no  gilded  apology  for  this 
shortcoming  by  being  able  to  rank  himself  a  million- 
aire. Indeed,  if  he  had  been  a  little  less  prosperous 
than  he  was  he  would  have  been  actually  poor. 
Society  thought  it  a  magnificent  thing  for  him,  but 
sighed  that  a  Satterthwaite  should  so  have  lowered 
her  standard.  It  chanced  that  young  Plunkett  was  a 
man  of  considerable  intellect,  a  rising  star  in  the  legal 
profession,  and  possessed  of  literary  taste  in  no  small 
degree.  But  these  minor  features  of  the  alliance  were 
naturally  ignored.  He  wasn't  a  swell  and  he  wasn't 
rich,  and  one  of  the  Satterthwaite  girls  had  consented 
to  throw  herself  away  on  him  —  voild,  tout.  Intel- 
lect? Literary  taste  ?  "  Bah  !  "  would  have  cried  that 
charming  goddess  of  caste  and  cultivation  who  presides 
over  the  holy  inner  circles  of  New  York.  "  You  can 
find  plenty  of  that  anywhere ;  it  grows  on  trees." 
Meanwhile,  Emmeline  carried  herself  with  as  grand 
an  air  as  if  she  had  just  become  engaged  to  young 
Lord  Scarletcoat,  whom  Elaine  had  been  tempting 
into  cis-Atlantic  matrimony  with  her  most  winsome 
smiles,  but  who  had  recently  sailed  for  his  paternal 
estates,  whither,  it  was  whispered,  a  sharp  letter  from 
his  anxious  ducal  father  had  hastily  summoned  him. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  Arthur  Plunkett,"  Emmeline 
had  boldly  said  to  her  cousin  Madeleine,  one  day, 
"  and  I  know  very  well  that  people  assert  it's  not  a 
good  match.  But  upon  my  word,  I  should  like  to 
know  why.  If  Arthur  were  a  baker  or  a  grocer,  I 
could  at  once  give  him  position  by  marrying  him. 
And  as  for  money,  papa's  promised  us  the  interest  on 
four  hundred  thousand  dollars  —  twenty  thousand  a 
year.  Then  Arthur  has  about  six  thousand  a  year, 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  347 

and  that  will  make  twenty-six  thousand.  Nothing 
very  wonderful,  of  course,  but  then  it  isn't  precisely 
poverty  when  you  bear  in  mind  that  we  shall  be 
guests  of  papa  and  mamma  at  Newport  in  the  sum- 
mer, for  as  long  as  we  please.  We  can  rent  a  small 
house  on  Fifth  or  Madison  Avenue,  and  have  two  or 
three  carriages  and  about  four  horses,  and  a  butler 
besides  the  coachman,  and  a  man  to  assist  the  butler, 
while  at  the  same  time  going  out  alongside  of  the 
coachman  and  also  acting  as  Arthur's  valet,  morning 
and  evening,  and  a  maid  for  me,  and  then  about  five 
other  servants.  But  all  of  the  other  servants  must  be 
women.  We  can't  afford  a  chef.  Arthur  and  I  have 
been  figuring  it  all  down,  and  we've  decided  that  a 
chef  is  impossible.  It  grieves  me  to  think  of  this,  but 
the  line  must  be  drawn.  It  will  be  plain,  genteel  liv- 
ing, you  see,  but  it  distinctly  will  not  be  poverty,  and 
I  should  be  very  glad,  really,  Lina,  if  you  would  con- 
tradict any  reports  you  may  hear  circulated  about 
papa  having  objected  to  the  marriage,  and  his  not 
intending  to  help  us  a  particle." 

"I  certainly  will,"  replied  Madeleine.  "It  must  be 
so  satisfactory,"  she  went  on,  "  to  marry  just  as  your 
heart  prompts,  whether  he's  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low." 

'  If  there  ever  was  a  falsehood,'  thought  Emmeline, 
'  she's  telling  it  now ;  for  she  thinks  nothing  of  the 
sort.'  But  aloud,  with  the  most  amiable  smile  :  "  My 
dear,  there's  no  such  happiness  —  none!  And  I  do 
hope  you'll  find  it  soon,  for  you've  waited  long 
enough  to  deserve  it." 

"  Waited!"  faltered  Madeleine. 

"Well,  then,  only  expected"  said  Emmeline,  making 
matters  a  little  worse  instead  of  better  between  them, 


348  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

as  one  young  lady  nearly  always  contrived  to  do  with 
the  other,  during  those  urbane  verbal  fencings  which 
they  held  together  under  the  guise  of  pleasant  conver- 
sation. 

The  dinner-party  given  to  Emmeline  by  the  Dela- 
plaines  was  of  sumptuous  quality  as  regarded  the 
repast  itself.  But  it  brought  conflicting  elements 
into  real  if  not  stormy  commotion,  and  lacked,  for 
this  reason,  all  the  better  traits  of  a  congratulatory 
reunion.  The  Satterthwaites  had  fallen  under  the 
secret  disapprobation  of  the  Auchinclosses  through 
their  conduct  since  little  Lulu's  death.  They  had 
not  conducted  themselves  with  a  sufficient  attention 
to  "duty"  as  mourners  for  persons  of  their  own  race 
and  name.  They  had  done  nothing  in  strikingly  bad 
taste,  but  they  had  hovered  upon  the  edge  of  such 
violation.  And  to-night  it  seemed  to  the  Auchinclosses 
that  their  bereaved  cousins  were  all  much  too  gay. 
Olivia  observed  the  whole  series  of  demonstrations, 
and  secretly  smiled  at  them.  Mrs.  Auchincloss  looked 
reproachfully  at  her  sister  whenever  she  laughed 
aloud.  She  had  told  Olivia,  not  long  ago,  that  she 
had  noticed  a  "softening  effect,  at  first,  upon  Sister 
Augusta,  caused  by  the  loss  of  little  Lulu,  though  it 
had  unfortunately  been  one  quite  too  soon  obliter- 
ated."" Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  who  raight  still  have  had 
her  depressed  moments,  evidently  took  pleasure  in 
maltreating  Mrs.  Auchincloss's  nerves  this  evening, 
by  continuous  exhibitions  of  mirthful  spirits.  Emme- 
line and  Madeleine  tossed  bitter  but  sugared  little 
pills  at  one  another,  across  the  table,  Elaine  now  and 
then  abetting  her  sister.  Chichester  Auchincloss 
attempted  to  patronize  his  cousin,  Aspinwall  Satter- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  349 

thwaite,  on  the  subject  of  too  profound  a  fondness  for 
horses  and  horse-racing,  and  received  from  the  heir  of 
his  uncle  certain  sarcasms  which  labored  under  the 
disadvantage  of  an  ill-tempered  crudeness.  The  ma- 
jestic Mr.  Archibald  Auchincloss  came  augustly  to  the 
rescue  of  his  son,  and  was  met  by  his  brother-in-law, 
Bleecker  Satterthwaite,  with  so  much  veiled  yet  mani- 
fest belligerence  as  to  make  Arthur  Plunkett,  Masse- 
reene  and  two  or  three  other  guests  uncomfortably 
stare  at  their  knives  and  forks.  But  the  contest 
passed  away  in  a  travesty  of  genial  reconciliation, 
like  the  ending  of  many  similar  engagements.  Mr. 
Auchincloss  had  managed,  however,  before  peace  was 
restored,  to  say  several  caustic  things  about  the  Met- 
ropolitan Club,  and  Mr.  Satterthwaite  had  held  his 
own  by  vigorously  deriding  the  Centennial. 

"  What  an  unfortunate  dinner  it  was !  "  Olivia  said 
laughingly  to  Massereene,  when  they  met,  a  day  or 
two  later.  "  I  never  heard  so  many  disgreeable 
remarks  in  the  space  of  two  hours.  And  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine,"  she  added,  perhaps  unconsciously  changing 
her  tones  from  levity  to  gravity,  "  was  all  the  time 
astonishingly  good-natured." 

"Does  that  happen  so  seldom?"  asked  Massereene. 
He  had  again  and  again  asked  himself  whether  Olivia 
would  ever  consent  to  speak  without  reserve  on  the 
subject  of  her  extraordinary  marriage. 

She  colored  a  little,  now.  "  You  are  beginning  to 
know  him  quite  well,"  she  replied.  "  Judge  for  your- 
self. 

"  Oh,  he  is  always  civil  enough  with  me." 

"  But  he  is  terribly  pessimistic,"  said  Olivia,  looking 
at  her  companion  as  though  she  wanted  him  either  to 


350  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

confirm  or  deny  this  view.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  he 
grows  worse  and  worse  ns  time  passes.  But  that  may 
only  be  my  imagination." 

"He  is  a  pessimist,"  returned  Massereene.  "And 
perhaps  you're  right  about  his  'growing  worse.'  Uap- 
petit  vient  en  mangeant" 

"  A  short  time  ago  I  did  not  even  know  what  the 
word  '  pessimist '  meant,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  rueful 
accent  on  each  word  and  a  troubled  light  beginning  to 
shine  in  her  eyes,  which  made  their  blue  like  that  of 
shadowed  water.  "  I  had  never  heard  of  such  people 
as  pessimists.  I  might  easily  have  been  persuaded 
they  were  a  kind  of  mineral." 

"  They're  thought  to  be  of  the  earth,  earthy.  .  .  . 
But  you  had  heard  about  Diogenes?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  the 
kind  of  things  he  said  were  worth  listening  to.  I  be- 
lieved that  all  the  darkness  in  the  world  was  the  nat- 
ural shadow  cast  by  the  brightness." 

"And  I  hope  you  haven't  changed  your  creed. 
Have  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  very  dubiously.  "  In  a  little 
while,"  she  murmtfred,  "  I  have  had  so  much  material 
for  a  totally  new  species  of  thought  thrust  upon  my 
mind!  I  used  to  accept  all  the  arrangements  of  life 
as  functions  of  one  perfect  system.  Those  who  were 
charitable,  self-disciplined,  kindly  of  spirit,  received 
their  reward  not  merely  hereafter,  but  very  often  here 
as  well.  The  selfish  and  cruel  and  wicked  people  were 
punished  in  the  same  way.  ...  I  do  not  feel  my  faith 
waver  at  all  on  the  subject  of  a  'hereafter,'  but  as  for 
*  here,'  .  .  .  well,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  those  who  get 
the  most  out  of  life  are  those  who  can  serve  their  own 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  351 

interests  with  the  greatest  dexterity  and  craft."  At 
this  point  Olivia  paused,  and  laughed  a  little  flutteredly. 
"That  sounds  as  if  I  were  turning  pessimist,  myself, 
in  good  earnest;  does  it  not?" 

"It  sounds  as  if  you  had  been  .  .  .  disappointed." 
He  lingered  over  the  last  word  before  pronouncing  it, 
and  as  though  he  were  on  the  verge  of  choosing 
another. 

"  I  have  been  disappointed,"  said  Olivia,  drooping 
her  eyes.  "  In  myself,"  she  added. 

"Ah  ...  Who  is  not?" 

"  I  did  a  wilful,  reckless  thing,  not  long  ago,  and  I 
am  suffering  for  having  done  it." 

"Was  it  a  selfish  tiling?"  asked  Massereene. 

"  Yes  —  miserably  so."  . 

"There,"  he  said  gently.  "See  how  a  minute  has 
made  you  contradict  yourself.  You  have  served  your 
own  interest,  by  your  own  confession.  But  you  have 
not  found  it  '  getting  the  most  out  of  life.'  " 

O  O 

"You  misunderstand.  I  meant  those  who  began 
very  young  and  lived  that  way  in  everything." 

"  I  see.  The  crustaceous  persons.  But  you  are  not 
one  of  those.  The  people  of  such  hard  prose  as  that 
resemble  the  poets  in  a  single  respect  at  least  —  they 
are  born  and  not  made." 

Olivia  looked  fixedly  at  the  speaker  for  a  moment. 
In  her  full  gaze  there  had  always  been  to  Massereene 
a  blending  of  courage  and  sweetness  which  made  her 
face  wholly  different  from  that  of  any  other  woman  he 
had  met.  "No,"  she  said,  slowly  and  thoughtfully, 
"  I  was  never  born  to  deafen  and  blind  myself 
thus." 

"  Never,"  Massereene  repeated,  with  fervor.     "  And 


352  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

this  fault  ...  do  you  mind  telling  me  what  it  is  — 
or  was  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  still  is.  ...  Its  results  are  an  incessant  re- 
minder. .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  tell  you  what  it  is.  I 
don't  doubt  that  you  have  more  than  half  guessed 
already.  Rien  rfest  plus  facile" 

The  long  spring  afternoon,  which  had  been  some- 
what chilly  out  of  doors,  filled  the  luxurious  room 
where  they  sat  with  a  light  at  once  drowsy  and  cheer- 
ful; what  came  to  them  was  bright  enough  sunshine, 
but  folds  of  lace  and  velvet  obstructed  its  too  glaring 
ingress.  A  fire  snapped  and  sparkled  on  the  silver- 
grated  hearth,  sending  little  reddish  floods  of  lustre  to 
the  big  leaves  of  a  tropic  plant  not  far  away,  and  mak- 
ing it  appear  as  if  visited  by  wizard  memories  of  its 
own  equatorial  heats.  As  Olivia  sat  in  one  corner  of 
a  satin  couch,  with  her  feet  on  a  carpet  of  richest 
texture  and  an  arm  resting  upon  the  most  costly  of 
embroidered  cushions,  Massereene  could  not  but  feel 
how  much  irony  of  contrast  lay  between  the  luxuries 
of  her  environment  and  that  discontent,  that  self-scorn, 
of  which  he  had  long  ago  guessed  her  to  be  the  victim. 

He  leaned  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  said :  "  You 
mean  —  your  marriage  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  looked  about  her  with  a  sudden 
alarmed  expression,  as  though  an  eavesdropper  might 
be  lurking  behind  one  of  the  screens  or  arm-chairs. 
But  this  fancy,  if  indeed  it  had  come  to  her,  possibly 
caused  the  dim,  sad  smile  that  edged  her  lips  as  she 
now  said : 

"  Of  course  that  is  what  I  mean.  I  do  not  doubt 
you  have  heard  many  strange  statements  regarding  my 
marriage." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  353 

"Well  .  .  .  frankly  ...  I  have  heard  it  criticised." 

"And  with  little  charity?" 

"Not  always,  perhaps,  in  the  kindest  manner." 

"  I  have  often  felt,"  she  softly  exclaimed,  "  that  it 
deserved  the  worst  odium." 

He  seemed  not  to  know  just  what  interrogatory  ven- 
tures on  his  part  would  transgress  delicacy.  With 
some  hesitation  he  asked: 

"  Was  not  Mr.  Delaplaine  very  ill  when  you  married 
him?" 

" Yes.  Dying,  I  thought"  Her  head  drooped,  and 
he  watched  the  rosy  color  bathe  the  cheek  nearer  him. 
"If  ever  shame  stained  a  woman's  cheek,"  he  thought, 
"  it  is  staining  hers  now."  "  He  says  that  he  deceived 
me,"  she  went  on  ;  and  here,  as  though  swayed  by  a 
thoroughly  new  impetus  of  feeling,  she  raised  her 
head,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  most  spiritedly 
enkindled.  "  He  admits  that  he  meant  to  live  if  he 
possibly  could  manage  it.  But  I  had  received  only  his 
entreaties  as  a  dying  man  ;  I  knew  nothing  of  the  hope 
which  he  had  of  his  own  recovery.  He  used  my 
father's  name  in  imploring  me  to  become  his  wife;  he 
offered  their  long  friendship  of  the  past  as  a  reason  for 
my  present  consent ;  he  — " 

"  Why,  this  completely  exonerates  yon  !  "  Massereene 
broke  in.  His  face  grew  radiant  to  Olivia  as  he  thus 
spoke.  "  I  dared  actually  to  blame  you,"  he  hurried 
on,  with  excited  tones,  and  an  expression  in  his  eyes 
full  of  self-accusing  ardor.  "Yes,  I,  who  had  no 
earthly  right,  presumed  to  say  that  you  had  acted  in  a 
way  unworthy  of  your  better  nature.  I  must  ask  your 
pardon  for  it.  After  having  confessed  thus  much,  I 
must  be£  you  for  absolution." 

CJ    »/ 


354  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"But  you  were  right,"  said  Olivia,  firmly,  meas- 
tiredly,  and  with  a  look  of  unflinching  resolve  on  her 
face.  "  I  did  violate  my  better  nature  — " 

"  But  he  deceived  you  ;  he  — " 

"  He  never  once  clouded  my  mind  to  the  fact  that  I 
would  be  aiding  my  own  fortunes  in  marrying  him. 
There  lies  all  my  self-humiliation.  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  ever  pardon  myself  for  making  what  I  believed  a 
death-bed  marriage,  yet  one  which  I  knew  would  prove 
greatly  to  my  own  worldly  advantage" 

"  And  you  would  like  to  be  pardoned  this  fault  by 
your  own  conscience?" 

"  Yes." 

Massereene  clasped  his  knee  with  both  hands,  and 
bowed  his  head  musingly;  the  attitude  would  have 
been  called,  in  some  men,  objectionably  unconven- 
tional ;  but  he  was  always  as  graceful  as  he  was  natural 
in  his  movements,  and  for  this  reason  took  liberties 
with  taste  while  managing  not  to  offend  it.  "  Pray 
what  do  you  call  your  conscience?"  he  questioned. 
"  Give  me  another  name  for  it." 

"I  will,"  said  Olivia;  "God." 

"  Ah !  .  .  .  you  mean  that  your  religious  sense  cries 
out  against  what  you  hold  as  the  commission  of  a  grave 
fault." 

"Yes,  because  with  me  all  sense  of  right  is  religious 
sense.  I  cannot  think  of  good  without  I  think  also  of 
God." 

"  And  you  believe  God  is  offended  with  you  for  hav- 
ing .  .  .  married  as  you  did?" 

She  nodded  a  sombre  little  affirmative.  Then,  seeing 
a  slow  smile  creep  about  his  mouth,  she  exclaimed  pro- 
testingly  :  "  I  know  it  seems  absurd  enough  to  you, 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  355 

who  have  thought  and  studied  it  all,  and  could  prob- 
ably write  a  book  upon  it,  to-morrow,  of  which  I 
would  not  be  able  to  understand  more  than  an  occa- 
sional chapter.  But  neither  can  you  understand  my 
faith  ;  "  and  as  she  pronounced  that  final  word  Masse- 
reene  seemed  to  see  what  he  would  almost  have  de- 
fined as  an  expression  of  holiness  flash  across  her 
face. 

"  I  cannot  understand  your  faith,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
am  by  no  means  without  a  faith  of  my  own." 

"  You  are  an  agnostic,"  said  Olivia  ;  "  I  heard  you 
tell  my  husband  so." 

"  I  told  him,  yes.     It  is  true." 

"  But  you  and  he  are  so  different !  He  is  an  agnos- 
tic, too,  or  so  he  would  claim.  But  he  always  seems  to 
be  saying  :  '  Well,  if  this  insoluble  mystery  that  baffles 
me  were  really  solved,  I  think  we  should  find  nothing- 
ness behind  it.'  You,  on  the  other  hand,  seem  at  times 
to  have  chosen  a  hope  for  yourself  that  is  enough  like 
faith  to  be  her  twin  sister  ...  I  like  to  hear  you  talk 
with  my  husband  on  these  terribly  important  themes. 
He  never  conquers  you,  though  he  is  supple  and  adroit 
and  a  combatant  to  feel  in  dread  of.  And  the  reason, 
I  am  assured,  is  simply  this :  you  have  a  divine  con- 
viction, and  .the  power  of  presenting  and  advancing  it. 
All  his  strategies  of  pessimism  and  cynicism  cannot 
argue  that  away." 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  I  acquit  myself  very  un- 
philosophically  in  those  discussions,"  replied  Masse- 
reene.  "  For  conviction,  however  it  may  secretly 
comfort  its  possessor,  will  be  apt  to  make  him  a  sorry 
ally  in  debate." 

"  I  have  not  seen  it  prove  so  in  your  case,"  said 


356  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Olivia,  with  earnestness.  "Your  points  always  appear 
admirably  taken.  Whenever  you  have  talked  with  my 
husband  I  have  felt  as  if  I  might  come  to  your  rescue 
provided  you  were  in  danger  of  defeat;  but  I  have 
never  yet  seen  you  even  moderately  jeopardized. 
And  surely  that  is  fortunate,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  he  returned,  smiling.  "  I  should 
enjoy  being  so  honorably  reinforced.  .  .  .  But  this 
trouble  of  yours?"  he  pursued.  "Since  you  are 
capable  of  imagining  to  yourself  a  definite  individual 
God,  I  should  fancy  that  you  might  gain  comfort 
from  the  thought  of  making  this  Deity  some  atone- 
ment —  some  "... 

"  Ah,"  Olivia  here  broke  in.  "  That  is  just  what  I 
have  sought  to  do  !  " 

"  And  successfully  ?  I  mean,  with  satisfaction  to 
your  own  wounded  conscience  ?  " 

"  No.     I  have  failed  —  wretchedly  failed." 

"  Failed !  "  he  repeated. 

She  had  averted  her  face,  but  she  now  turned  it 
again  toward  his  own,  and  laid  her  hand,  as  she  did 
so,  lightly  and  briefly  on  his  arm.  The  instant  she 
spoke  he  perceived  that  her  voice  was  filled  with  the 
tears  which  had  begun  to  swirn  and  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"I  —  I  can't  tell  yon  just  now  what  I  mean,"  she 
faltered.  "  Perhaps  some  other  time  I  will  tell  you. 
I  —  I  would  like  your  help  —  your  counsel.  But  not 
now.  Let  it  be  enough,  at  present,  for  me  to  answer 
you  by  saying  that  I  have  failed  —  that  the  God  in 
whom  I  believe  fervently  now  seems  angry  with  mo, 
as  with  one  who  has  not  profited  by  the  gifts  of  forti- 
tude and  self-control  that  he  gave  me  in  the  past. 
And  yet  I  somehow  cannot  take  up  the  task  where  I 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  357 

have  let  it  fall.  Or,  if  I  were  willing  so  to  take  it  up, 
there  might  be  reasons  against  its  resumption  as  be- 
fore .  .  ." 

"  I  understand  you,"  began  Massereene.  You 
have  —  " 

"  Never  mind  what  I  have  done !  "  Olivia  broke  in, 
rising.  "  We  will  speak  of  all  this  again,  no  doubt, 
though  I  —  I  can't  promise  you  at  just  what  hour  such 
another  talk  will  suit  my  humor."  She  looked  down 
at  him  with  a  faint  smile  on  her  trembling  lips  and  a 
starry  plaintiveness  in  her  moistened  eyes.  .  .  .  But 
the  next  minute  she  had  drawn  out  a  pretty  little 
bediamonded  watch  and  glanced  at  it.  "You  came  to 
take  me  to  the  Academy  of  Design,"  she  went  on, 
with  an  immediate  alteration  of  tone.  "It  is  already 
past  four,  and  I  shall  need  at  least  ten  minutes  to  put 
on  my  bonnet  and  wraps.  It  will  be  nearly  five  by 
the  time  that  we  get  down  there  .  .  .  well,  I  hope 
you  will  not  think  I  have  quite  spoiled  our  afternoon's 
project  with  my  aimless  commonplaces." 

"  I  have  heard  no  commonplaces,"  Massereene  an- 
swered;  "and  I  should  dislike  to  call  what  you  have 
said  to  me  aimless,  because,  as  I  pray  you  will  not 
forget,  a  sort  of  engagement  results  from  it." 

"An  engagement?"  she  repeated,  puzzledly.  .  .  . 
"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  But  don't  treat  it  as  any- 
thing like  a  compact  between  us,  or  I  may  never  be 
able,  through  sheer  nervous  reluctance,  to  speak  again 
of  the  melancholy  matter." 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  able  —  and  soon,"  he  said. 

Olivia  had  glided  toward  the  door.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  him  over  one  shoulder.  "  Why?" 
she  asked. 


358  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Because  I  might  offer  some  bit  of  advice  not 
wholly  despicable  —  that's  all." 

She  left  the  room  without  a  word  of  reply.  Masse- 
reene  paced  the  floor  until  she  returned.  He  had  never 
so  vividly  seen  as  now  what  a  mockery  and  misery 
her  life  with  Spencer  Delaplaine  had  proved.  If 
she  ever  gave  him  the  right  to  counsel  her,  this  young 
man  knew  (or  he  now  passionately  told  himself  that 
he  knew)  just  what  form  such  advocacy  would  take. 
He  had  seen  enough  of  the  Delaplaine  menage  to  com- 
prehend how  a  sensitive  and  high-strung  woman  daily 
suffered  under  the  lash  of  persecutions  that  her  own 
large-minded  ness  alone  kept  her  from  resenting.  He 
was  alive  to  the  painful  delicacy  of  his  own  position, 
should  any  real  question  arise  of  urging  Olivia  to  avail 
herself  of  a  certain  expedient ;  for  nothing,  as  he 
clearly  realized,  could  exceed  the  difficulty  of  enacting 
this  role  with  due  tact  and  grace,  when  a  little  emo- 
tion of  too  lightly-bridled  a  quality  might  reveal  more 
than  the  friendly  spirit  of  intercession  which  he  solely 
desired  to  exhibit. 

"She  is  the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world," 
JVlassereene  now  somewhat  excitedly  mused,  "  and  one 
of  the  most  spotless.  In  spite  of  what  she  believes 
the  sin  of  her  marriage,  she  would  have  made  him  the 
loveliest  of  wives,  if  the  old  satyr  had  but  permitted. 
.  .  .  Live?  He  may  live  twenty  years  yet ;  and  mean- 
while, age  will  not  wither  nor  custom  stale  his  infinite 
hatefulness.  ...  If  she  allows  me  to  speak  ten  words 
of  guidance  to  her  hereafter,  I  know  what  those  words 
will  be." 

Olivia  reappeared  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
dressed  for  the  visit  to  the  Academy  of  Design.  They 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  359 

walked  from  West  Tenth  Street  up  Fifth  Avenue, 
talking  on  subjects  that  seemed  to  Massereene  the 
airiest  of  trifles  after  that  discussion  which  had  pre- 
ceded them.  The  day  was  brilliant  and  salubrious; 
the  Avenue  rang  with  the  hollow  clatter  of  high-step- 
ping horses,  and  from  open  carriages  Olivia  and  Mas- 
sereene received  more  than  one  smiling  bow.  Mrs. 
Delaplaine's  career  during  the  past  season  had  been 
marked  by  so  much 'en viable  notability  that  a  bow 
from  her  was  no  less  eagerly  sought  than,  in  most 
cases,  it  was  beamingly  given.  Among  those  who 
saluted  Olivia  and  her  companion,  were  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  and  Elaine.  Mother  and  daughter  were  being 
driven  out  to  the  Park  for  ah  airing  in  the  prettiest 
and  most  chic  of  landaus.  They  were  both  in  mourn- 
ing, of  course,  and  the  coachman  and  footman  were  in 
mourning  also.  The  whole  effect  was  very  imposing 
in  its  general  suggestion  of  strict  family  adherence  to 
propriety,  decorum  and  the  usage  du  monde.  But 
Olivia  did  not  repress  a  sad  smile  as  the  carriage  of 
her  aunt  and  cousin  rolled  by. 

"Poor  little  Lulu!"  she  said.  "Such  majesty  of 
mourning  seems  like  an  overwhelming  tribute  when 
one  recollects  what  a  tiny  childish  life  it  commemo- 
rates." .  .  .  Then  she  bit  her  lip  and  added,  soberly 
enough,  "  It  would  not  seem  so,  I  suppose,  if  any  of 
them  really  cared.  But  I  half  believe  they  have 
almost,  if  not  quite,  forgotten  "... 

The  Academy  of  Design  caused  Massereene  to  burst 
into  an  amused  laugh  as  they  approached  it.  "I  find 
it  so  ridiculously  like  and  yet  wwlike,"  he  said,  "  the 
Venetian  palace  it  is  copied  from  in  miniature." 

Olivia  smiled.     "I  am  afraid  we  are  not  going  to 


360  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

see  anything  half  as  artistically  worth  our  notice 
inside"  she  said. 

"  Is  it  an  inferior  exhibition  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it  will  be  tame  enough.  And  yet  I 
have  no  reason  to  anticipate  mediocrity.  I  have  not 
even  taken  the  trouble  to  read  the  newspaper  notices 
upon  it ;  did  you  ?  " 

"  No.  It  is  surely  time  that  we  had  some  good  art 
in  this  country.  And,  indeed,  I  am  sure  that  we  have, 
Since  my  arrival  I  have  met  several  American  artists, 
and  have  visited  their  studios.  They  showed  me 
excellent  work,  though  it  was  mostly  in  landscape. 
They  complain  bitterly  of  the  national  tendency  to 
do  just  what  you  have  done." 

"  And  what  have  I  done  ? "  asked  Olivia,  as  they 
ascended  the  handsome  marble  steps  leading  into  the 
suite  of  lofty  and  elegant  apartments  beyond. 

"You  have  unconsciously  fallen  into  the  popular 
vein  of  detraction.  Before  even  getting  a  glimpse  of 
what  you  come  to  examine  as  the  production  of  your 
country-people,  you  have  assumed  that  it  is  to  strike 
you  unfavorably." 

Olivia  paused  at  the  centre  of  the  last  stairway. 
"You  are  right,"  she  affirmed,  with  vehemence.  "I 
deserve  to  be  both  reproached  and  repressed  for  my 
unjust  and  unwarrantable  prejudice." 

"I  meant  nothing  so  severe." 

"  Yes,  you  did,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  can  so 
easily  understand  that  good  American  artists  should 
groan  under  the  burden  of  indifference  which  con- 
stantly oppresses  them.  Is  it  such  a  very  heavy  one  ? 
Before  we  go  to  look  at  these  pictures,  tell  me  what 
their  ground  of  complaint  truly  is.  Do  they  not  say 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  361 

that  they  are  forced  to  struggle  against  foreign  com- 
petition to  a  disheartening  degree?" 

"  That  is  their  complaint,"  replied  Massereene,  in- 
terested by  the  swift  repentance  that  he  had  awak- 
ened, and  mentally  matching  it  with  other  tendencies 
in  Olivia's  character  which  he  had  before  marked  as 
setting  toward  a  humane  and  kindly  estimate  of  her 
fellow-creatures.  "They  claim,"  he  continued,  "that 
the  foreign  craze  of  nearly  all  American  buyers  cruelly 
stands  in  the  way  of  their  own  fair  appreciation  as 
painters.  Mediocre  canvases,  bearing  European  names, 
are  sold  here  for  prices  far  above  any  which  the  best 
native  effort  may  hope  to  secure.  They  state  that  the 
American  spirit  in  art  is  a  servile  worshipper  of  im- 
ported labor.  They  admit  that  their  cause  has  been 
defended  by  certain  friendly  journalistic  pens  ;  but  it 
has  been  so  defended,  they  declare,  without  avail. 
No  one  seems  to  deny  the  wrong  inflicted  upon  them ; 
but  the  great  public  here  is  like  the  Chancellor  in 
Tennyson's  poem,  "  who  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 
and  smiling  put  the  question  by."  It  does  not  even 
trouble  itself  to  contradict  the  fact  that  Smith  and 
Jones,  in  their  studios  yonder  on  Fourth  Avenue,  or 
just  across  the  street  in  the  Young  Men's  Christian 
Association  Building,  can  paint  remarkably  well.  But 
it  prefers  to  decorate  its  drawing-rooms,  all  the  same, 
with  the  paintings  of  Germans  and  Frenchmen." 

"And  this  protest?"  said  Olivia,  thoughtfully,  as 
though  Massereene's  words  had  impressed  her  with  no 
slight  force.  "Do  you  consider  it  founded  upon  a 
legitimate  grievance  ?  " 

"  Generally  speaking,  I  do.  Of  course  there  are  the 
incompetent  grumblers  ;  but  then  they  always  skulk 


362  OLIVIA  DELAPLA1NE. 

at  the  skirts  of  any  reformatory  movement.  Not  that 
this  should  be  called  one.  The  contempt  in  which 
good  American  artists  are  held  by  those  who  should 
aid  and  support  them  is  not,  like  our  lack  of  all  Copy, 
right  Law,  a  subject  for  progressive  legislation.  There 
is  a  kind  of  ethical  equity  which  cannot  be  secured 
either  at  Albany  or  Washington.  On  the  chance  of 
ultimately  gaining  this  (for  their  descendants  if  not 
for  themselves)  our  painters  must  base  all  future 
hopes." 

Olivia  woke  herself  from  a  little  revery.  "  Come," 
she  said,  ascending  the  last  few  steps  that  remained  to 
be  taken;  "let  us  look  at  everything  we  find  here, 
with  thoroughly  impartial  eyes.  Let  us  mettre  les 
points  sitr  les  i's  like  the  most  careful  and  incorrupti- 
ble critics." 

"  You  are  a  critic,  then  ?  "  asked  Massereene. 

"Yes;  why  not?  I  have  opinions.  Is  not  a  critic  a 
man  or  woman  who  has  opinions?" 

"  That  would  make  all  the  world  a  critic." 

"  So  it  is.  Is  not  everybody  forever  delivering  an 
opinion  on  somebody  else?  If  it  is  not  expressed 
about  the  picture  you  paint,  the  poem  you  write,  or 
the  house  you  build,  it  is  made  to  concern -the  man 
you  did  marry,  the  woman  you  didn't  marry,  the 
beauty  of  your  wife,  the  solvency  of  your  husband." 
She  broke  into  a  gay  laugh,  and  waved  her  catalogue 
to  and  fro.  "A  critic?  Of  course  I'm  one.  I  don't 
really  know  any  more  about  painting  than  astronomy ; 
but  that  doesn't  ever  prevent  me  from  saying  fear- 
lessly what  I  think.  Do  you  hold  that  to  be  unpar- 
donably  impudent?" 

"No  —  for  an  excellent  reason." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  363 

"What  reason?" 

"Being  confessedly  ignorant,  you  only  say  what 
you  think;  you  don't  print  it,  as  so  many  similar 
critics  do." 

But  Olivia  misrepresented  her  own  taste  and  knowl- 
edge in  an  equal  degree.  With  her  father,  in  past 
years,  she  had  visited  many  of  the  most  famous  gal- 
leries abroad.  She  had  acquired  that  power  to  seize 
upon  the  best  attributes  in  a  good  picture  or  the 
superior  ones  in  a  picture  of  slender  merit,  which  is 
less  purely  instinctive  than  resultant  from  early  famil- 
iarity with  superfine  models. 

The  various  halls,  opening  one  into  another,  con- 
tained groups  of  people  scattered  over  their  floors, 
with  an  occasional  pair,  such  as  Olivia  and  her  escort, 
but  nowhere  the  least  semblance  of  a  multitude. 
Three  or  four  weeks  had  elapsed  since  the  Academy 
had  once  again  flung  back  its  doors  to  the  public,  and 
that,  for  a  city  whose  artistic  perceptions  are  as  lan- 
guid as  those  of  New  York,  meant  quite  a  protracted 
interval.  Olivia  had  been  betrayed,  as  she  herself 
frankly  conceded,  into  three  or  four  little  bursts  of 
eulogy,  and  she  was  moving  onward  with  her  com- 
panion from  one  of  the  large  chambers  into  a  second 
still  more  spacious,  when  she  suddenly  became  aware 
of  a  gentleman,  catalogue  in  hand,  who  advanced 
directly  toward  herself  and  Massereene.  The  next 
instant  she  had  seen  that  this  gentleman  was  her 
husband. 

Such  a  meeting  might  have  been  the  most  accidental 
circumstance  conceivable,  and  it  might  have  been  pre- 
arranged with  vigilant  adroitness.  The  latter  explana- 
tion of  it  now  shot  through  Olivia's  mind.  She  had 


364  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

nothing  to  be  in  the  least  ashamed  of  or  embarrassed 
at,  and  yet  while  she  stood  beside  Massereene  and 
waited  for  her  husband  to  approach  still  nearer,  she 
could  feel  the  deepening  flush  of  crimson  heat  her 
cheeks. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  365 


XX. 

IT  was  a  confusion,  a  loss  of  savoir  faire,  that  she 
hated  herself  for  experiencing.  She  feared  that  Mas- 
sereene  would  observe  it,  and  she  knew  that  her 
husband  would  infallibly  do  so.  In  another  minute, 
or  less  time  than  that,  she  perceived  that  he  had  done 
so.  On  his  own  part  there  was  not  the  faintest  reve- 
lation of  surprise.  He  came  to  the  spot  where  she 
had  paused,  with  a  tranquillity  as  unruffled  as  any  that 
she  had  ever  seen  him  show.  He  shook  hands  most 
composedly  with  Massereene,  but  Olivia  was  conscious 
of  his  cold,  undeserting  gray  eye,  fixed  upon  her 
flushed  cheek  with  what  her  fluttered  nerves  readily 
construed  into  relentless  exultation. 

"  Have  you  come  here  to  look  at  these  amateurish 
pictures?"  he  said.  "How  odd  that  we  should  have 
hit  on  the  same  day !  It  speaks  plainly  for  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  season,  does  it  not?  I  hardly  know  any 
mode  of  amusement  that  I  should  not  have  preferred." 

"We  were  just  deciding,"  said  Massereene,  "that 
we  had  hit  upon  a  very  agreeable  one." 

Delaplaine,  as  he  had  heard  this,  lifted  his  eyebrows 
a  little.  "  What  ?  Truly  ?  "  he  murmured.  Then  he 
became  at  once  his  serene  self  again.  "  Oh,  they  are 
not  all  daubs,  of  course.  But  so  many  of  them  are, 
that  one  loses  sight  of  the  few  creditable  things." 

Olivia  had  striven  with  her  detested  agitation,  by 
this  time,  and  conquered  it.  She  felt  certain  that  her 


366  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

color  was  receding,  and  on  that  account  she  trusted 
her  voice. 

"  The  word  '  daub '  is  such  a  very  harsh  one,"  she 
hazarded.  Then,  satisfied  that  the  tones  just  used 
were  firm  as  she  wanted  them  to  be,  notwithstanding 
those  more  rapid  heart-beats  which  continued  to  annoy 
her,  she  boldly  went  on:  "We  have  only  seen,  thus 
far,  the  contents  of  this  one  room.  But,  for  my  pai't, 
I  like  several  paintings  very  much.  I  did  not  sup- 
pose that  American  art  was  in  half  so  flourishing  a 
condition." 

Delaplaine  had  on  his  glasses :  he  lifted  one  hand 
and  re-arranged  them  by  the  daintiest  of  movements ; 
then  he  stared  all  about  him,  with  a  smile  breaking 
through  the  hueless  edges  of  his  lips. 

"American  art?"  he  queried  with  undisguised  su- 
perciliousness. "I  don't  discover  the  vaguest  evi- 
dence of  any.  There  is  a  picture  of  some  negroes 
grouped  round  a  stove,  grinning  at  one  another,  in  the 
next  room,  which  possibly  might  merit  that  name. 
But  it  is  a  bit  of  mongrel  crudity,  with  horrors  of 
coloring  and  the  most  precarious  draughtsmanship. 
Whenever  you  light  on  anything  good  here,  it  strikes 
you  as  being  so  simply  because  it  is  not  as  bad  an 
imitation  of  modern  European  masters  as  its  ambi- 
tious but  inefficient  author  might  have  made  it."  He 
ceased  to  speak  for  a  moment,  and  his  dry  laugh 
sounded  as  shrill  as  the  crackling  of  fagots  in  a  quick 
breeze.  "  American  art,  indeed !  Why,  the  whole 
affair  is  like  the  work  of  a  lot  of  pupils  in  some  atelier 
of  France  or  Germany.  Even  the  clever  landscape 
men  are  irritating  copyists.  I  should  like  to  discover 
a  single  original  brush-stroke  among  them  all." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  367 

Olivia,  without  reply,  passed  slowly  into  the  next 
apartment,  whose  threshold  was  but  a  few  yards  away. 
Delaplaine  and  Massereene  followed.  She  went  from 
picture  to  picture,  gradually  collecting  herself  and 
feeling  the  unpalatable  certainty  augment  within  her 
that  this  abrupt  appearance  on  her  husband's  part  had 
been  the  sly  sequitur  of  some  deliberate  ambuscade. 

Soon  .she  heard  her  husband  speaking  again,  and 
seemingly  close  at  hand.  He  was  no  doubt  answering 
some  remark  which  Massereene  had  just  addressed  to 
him. 

"  Some  thinkers  deny  that  there  ever  can  be  any- 
thing like  an  American  literature,  and  they're  most 
probably  right.  Nations  cannot  be  expected  to  have 
a  literature  of  their  own  without  having  a  language  of 
their  own.  What  literature  has  Switzerland  or  Bel- 
gium? As  long  as  the  same  language  is  spoken  in 
London  and  New  York,  Liverpool  and  San  Francisco, 
our  Letters  will  deserve  but  a  single  name  —  colonial, 
I  don't  see  how  any  one  who  isn't  quite  besotted  with 
patriotic  prejudice  can  refuse  to  grant  this.  Why, 
some  of  the  Greek  poems  and  plays  were  written  in 
such  un-Attic  Greek  that  it  would  almost  have  puzzled 
an  Athenian  ;  and  yet  the  whole  collection  was  called 
Greek  literature ;  no  one  ever  dreamed  of  calling  it 
anything  else.  But  as  regards  American  art,  that  is  a 
wholly  different  affair.  We  simply  want  to  assert 
ourselves,  to  be  representative,  to  be  American,  if 
there  is  anything  artistically  American  to  be!" 

"And  you  are  inclined  to  think  there  is  not,"  said 
Massereene.  In  his  voice  Olivia  could  detect  only 
dispassionate  inquiry,  without  the  vaguest  ring  of 
either  approval  or  censure. 


368  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  I  can't  see  any  evidence,  from  present  indications, 
that  such  an  element  exists.  And  if  it  does,  it  is 
abominably  neglected.  Take  the  figure-painting  here. 
It  is  all  —  even  the  strongest  of  it  —  weak  as  the 
struggles  of  tyros  always  are.  Here  we  have  an 
academy  of  tyros ;  I  dare  say  that  some  of  them  are 
gray-beards,  and  have  'been  at  it'  for  an  age;  but 
they're  tyros,  all  the  same." 

"I  wonder,"  now  thought  Olivia,  "that  he  dares 
talk  like  this.  He  may  be  overheard,  but  even  if  he  is 
not,  how  can  he  know  that  Jasper  Massereene  doesn't 
secretly  regard  him  as  a  person  with  whom  the  mau- 
vaise  langue  is  a  mere  mania  ?  I  have  never  known 
him  so  recklessly  bitter  as  he  has  shown  himself  of 
late." 

And  then  a  little  thrill  of  dread  passed  through 
Olivia.  What  if  his  mind  were  beset  by  some  malady 
of  which  these  intemperate  condemnations  formed  the 
discordant  prelude  ?  Her  life  with  him  sane  had  been 
one  of  enough  aggravation  and  dreariness.  To  what 
depth  of  distress  might  not  this  life  sink  if  he  should 
develop  some  cerebral  distemper,  fraught  with  new 
ordeal  to  herself,  while  at  the  same  time  exempted 
from  the  usual  restrictions  demanded  by  violence  ? 

She  now  turned  and  joined  her  husband  and  Masse- 
reene, just  as  the  latter  was  saying : 

"Your  disrelish,  Mr.  Delaplaine,  is  a  besom  that 
sweeps  away  everything  before  it.  For  myself,  I  find 
some  good  painting  here,  though  some  that  is  both 
tentative  and  irrational." 

Delaplaine  gave  one  of  his  bleak  little  laughs. 
"  Every  man  who  presumes  to  paint  the  human  form 
should  remember  that  though  genius  may  not  be 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  369 

teachable,  anatomy  is.  Look  at  that  Carlo vingian 
princess,  yonder,  praying  to  her  bai'barous  conqueror. 
You  find  yourself  astonished  that  she  should  have  so 
little  feminine  vanity  as  to  pray  with  such  abnormal 
finger-joints.  No  true  woman  would  have  done  it. 
She'd  have  seen  her  captive  lord  lose  his  head  first." 

"  That  depends  upon  the  captive  lord's  previous  use 
of  his  head,"  Olivia  could  not  resist  saying,  as  she 
peered  at  one  of  the  smaller  pictures  in  a  slightly 
stooped  posture.  Before  her  husband  could  answer  — 
if  he  had  had  such  an  inclination  —  Massereene  began  : 

"Allow  that  there  are  faulty  figure-pieces.  The 
landscapes " 

But  at  once  he  was  interrupted.  "  They're  mostly 
either  slavish  in  their  copying  of  renowned  landscape 
men  abroad,  or  so  finical  and  detailed  that  they  sug- 
gest a  new  kind  of  nature,  known  and  cherished  only 
by  their  photographic  portrayers  of  it." 

"I  do  not  at  all  agree  with  you,"  remarked  Masse- 
reene, with  quiet  firmness.  "  There,  for  instance,  is  a 

landscape  by ,"  and  he  named  a  painter  of  more 

talent  than  fame,  whose  canvas  fronted  them.  "  Those 
autumnal  tints  are  to  be  found  nowhere  in  Europe ; 
this  man  has  drawn  his  inspiration  from  the  woods  and 
fields  of  his  own  coiintry.  That  mist  upon  the  distant 
hills,  that  brooding  smoky  color  in  the  leafy  valley, 
that  cluster  of  frosted  foliage  pluming  the  foreground 
—  they  are  all  American  beyond  dispute,  and  all 
treated  with  a  lavish  poetical  spirit  .  .  .  At  least  1 
think  so,"  finished  Massereene,  who  scarcely  ever  per- 
mitted himself  to  be  downright,  even  when  convinced 
that  he  held  the  ruling  side  of  a  discussion.  * 

"Ah,    yes,"    responded    Delaplaine,   with   a   blunt 


370  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

asperity  that  struck  a  most  unhabitual  note  in  liis 
wonted  composure,  " '  I  think  so.'  That  is  the  usual 
arbitration  of  the  judge  who  has  no  better  critical 
resources.  '  I  think  so.'  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt." 

This  narrowly  bordered  upon  impertinence,  and  its 
recipient  answered  it  with  a  look  full  of  gentle  yet 
assertive  dignity.  But  somehow,  a  moment  later,  he 
caught  Olivia's  eye,  and  saw  there  a  kind  of  worried 
pleading  which  caused  him  speedily  to  forget  her  hus- 
band's unmannerly  rebuff. 

"He  is  full  of  hatred  toward  Jasper  Massareene," 
Olivia  was  then  telling  herself.  "  I  am  almost  certain, 
now,  that  he  has  spied  upon  us.  Behind  all  this  scorn 
of  American  painting  lies  a  mood  whose  harshness  I 
shall  feel  the  brunt  of  hereafter." 

They  soon  began,  all  three,  to  move  onward,  and 
for  quite  a  long  time  there  was  no  perceptible  abate- 
ment of  Delaplaine's  inclement  verdicts.  Every  new 
work  that  he  condescended  to  notice  at  all  he  made  a 
target  for  his  most  unmerciful  raillery  and  disdain. 
There  was  often  so  much  truth  mingled  with  his  sav- 
agery, that  if  some  adept  at  shorthand  could  have 
taken  down  all  that  he  said,  and  printed  it  verbatim 
in  a  newspaper,  it  would  have  served  excellently  for 
an  example  of  the  "  brilliant,"  "  slashing "  or  "  fear- 
less" criticism  of  our  period.  In  other  words,  it  was 
wholly  uncharitable,  and  marked  by  a  perspicacity  that 
reserved  its  keenest  discernments  for  the  worst  errors 
of  the  artist.  Meanwhile,  however,  he  contrived  to 
blend  with  all  his  acerbity  a  vein  of  clear  concilia- 
tion toward  Massareene.  It  soon  became  apparent 
that  he  desired  to  express  regret,  if  nothing  like  con- 
trition; and  they  had  not  finished  their  tour  of  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  371 

five  or  six  apartments  befoi'e  he  had  courteously  asked 
Massareeue  whether  he  would  not  find  it  agreeable  to 
give  Mrs.  Delaplaine  and  himself  the  pleasure  of  his 
company  at  dinner  that  evening. 

Massereene  acquiesced.  The  young  man  may  be 
said  never  to  have  formulated  his  own  feelings  as 
regarded  the  exact  terms  of  his  acquaintanceship  with 
Olivia  Delaplaine.  But  it  is  certainly  well  within  the 
bounds  of  probability  that  he  should  have  indulged  a 
little  self-introspection  as  to  why  he  so  coolly  and 
unalarmedly  confronted  the  prospect  of  a  dinner  at 
the  board  of  her  Rhadamanthine  husband.  As  it  was, 
he  gave  up  a  partial  engagement  to  dine  with  an 
Englishman  at  Delmonico's  that  same  evening.  He 
softened  his  own  compunction,  after  saying  au  revoir 
to  Olivia  on  the  outer  steps  of  the  Academy,  by  assur- 
ing himself  that  the  Englishman  was  a  pushing  fellow 
whom  he  had  always  thought  third-rate  in  nearly 
everything,  and  that  he  had  not  by  any  means  prom- 
ised his  own  presence  as  an  unfailing  certainty.  For 
the  rest,  a  memory  dwelt  with  him  of  Mrs.  Dela- 
plaine's  last  look,  and  so  dispelled  all  further  consci- 
entious qualms.  The  look  had  seemed  to  say :  "  Do 
not  disappoint;  your  coming  may  save  me  untold 
discomfort."  Still,  this  was  the  mere  haphazard  inter- 
pretation of  a  most  dubious  intuition.  Mrs.  Delaplaine 
(as  Massereene  soon  afterward  informed  his  own 
thoughts)  might  have  intended  to  do  no  more  than 
look  polite  sanction  of  her  husband's  hospitality. 

Delaplaine's  brougham  was  waiting  for  him  outside 
the  Academy.  Massereene  had  already  left  them 
when  husband  and  wife  set  foot  upon  the  lower  pave- 
ments. Olivia  had  by  this  time  seen  the  brougham. 


372  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"I  shall  walk  down  home,"  she  announced,  very 
placidly. 

"  There  is  not  time  for  you  to  do  so,"  he  replied, 
pulling  out  his  watch  and  giving  it  a  glance.  "  It  is 
nearly  six  now,  and  if  you  wish  to  dress  for  dinner — " 

"  I  don't  wish  to  dress  for  dinner,"  she  interrupted, 
moving  away.  "  I  shall  not  be  late  —  and  I  prefer 
walking." 

She  passed  right  on  toward  Madison  Avenue  with- 
out offering  another  word  or  waiting  to  hear  one. 
The  thought  of  being  driven  home  at  Delaplaine's 
side  had  become  execrable  to  her;  she  did  not  know 
what  thrilling  insult  might  leave  those  unmerciful  lips 
of  his  after  he  and  she  were  once  in  the  carriage  to- 
gether. She  felt  glad  that  Massereene  had  hurried  off 
up  town,  to  dress,  as  he  had  told  them,  for  dinner ; 
otherwise  her  husband  might  have  construed  her 
present  course  into  some  design  of  seeing  the  young 
man  again  between  now  and  dinner-time.  "I  will  not 
look  at  one  of  the  carriages  that  go  past  me  in  the 
avenue,"  Olivia  mutely  determined ;  and  she  did  not. 
If  her  homeward  progress  was  being  scrutinized  by  a 
pair  of  pursuant  marital  eyes,  she  therefore  remained 
ignorant  of  it.  As  for  Delaplaine's  late  ccrdialty  to 
Massereene,  she  had  grown  almost  convinced  that  this 
had  been  founded  upon  sham.  But  why  the  employ- 
ment of  sham  ?  Why  the  invitation  to  dinner  ?  Had 
her  anxiety  but  conjured  empty  spectres  after  all?  It 
may  even  have  been  that  the  meeting  in  the  Academy 
of  Design  was  accidental.  Olivia  tried  to  soothe  her 
own  troubled  sensations  by  asking  herself  if  she  had 
possibly  allowed  mere  nervous  misgiving  to  cast  a 
fantastic  or  hobgoblin  light  over  the  commonplace. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  373 

She  went  immediately  to  her  room,  on  reaching- 
home  a  little  before  seven.  The  changes  that  she 
had  decided  to  make  in  her  toilet  were  slight ;  she 
had  completed  them  when  a  servant  knocked  at  her 
door,  informing  her  that  Mr.  Massereene  was  in  the 
drawing-room  and  that  dinner  was  served.  But  she 
had  scarcely  gone  out  into  the  hall  before  she  perceived 
her  husband  coming  toward  her  from  an  opposite  di- 
rection ;  like  herself,  he  was  approaching  the  staircase 
that  led  below. 

"You  are  in  time  for  dinner  after  all,"  he  surprised 
her  by  most  amiably  saying. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  making  her  tones  ex- 
tremely affable,  and  beginning  to  descend  as  she 
spoke ;  "  I  was  sure  that  I  should  be." 

"  I  suppose  it  quite  astonished  you  to  find  me  there, 
at  the  Academy." 

"  Well,  it  seemed  a  little  strange,  as  you  said,  that 
we  should  both  have  hit  on  the  same  day  —  especially 
as  you  had  not  mentioned  going.  But  no  doubt  you 
go  every  year  ;  do  you  not  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  a  minute  later  they  both 
stood  in  the  lower  hall.  Suddenly,  she  saw  a  look  of 
great  moroseness  and  acrimony  possess  his  face,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  a  cold,  bluish  light  leaped  electri- 
cally from  his  angered  eyes. 

"  You  know  very  well,"  he  said  hissingly  to  her, 
"that  I  went  there  because  you  and  Tie  went  —  be- 
cause I  saw  you  from  my  carriage  as  I  drove  along 
—  because  I  had  a  most  natural  curiosity  to  ... 
to  learn  how  this  very  friendly  intimacy  was  devel- 
oping." 

The  plain  sneer  in  his  last  words  lost  its  point  for 


374  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

Olivia,  because  of  the  suppressed  fury  that  accom- 
panied it.  She  had  become  so  used  to  his  sneering 
under  conditions  of  the  most  entire  immobility  that 
this  unusual  evidence  of  exasperation,  and  perhaps  of 
burning  jealousy  as  well,  at  once  gave  a  weapon  to 
her  dauntless  young  spirit.  She  had  never  feared 
Delaplaine,  as  we  know.  She  regarded  him  now 
with  a  look  full  of  that  rebuke  which  a  larger  nature 
can  sometimes  visually,  inexplainably,  and  in  a  trice, 
as  it  were,  communicate  to  a  smaller  one. 

"  What  admirable  taste ! "  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
"  But  I  might  have  been  prepared  for  it  in  you."  She 
pointed  to  the  closed  door  of  the  drawing-room,  near 
which  they  both  stood.  "  Why  ask  here,  to  dine  with 
you,  a  gentleman  upon  whose  acts  you  have  played 
the  spy  ?  " 

He  made  an  enraged  gesture.  "  Do  you  want  me  to 
speak  out  what  I  think,"  he  said,  "  before  him  ?  —  be- 
fore you  both  ?  " 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "  If  you  insulted  him,  he  would 
know  bow  to  resent  it,"  she  answered.  "  If  you  in- 
sulted me  in  his  presence,  you  would  be  lowering 
yourself  more  than  a  man  of  your  social  prudence 
would  be  at  all  apt  to  do." 

Her  retort  was  vibrant  with  the  most  challenging 
scorn.  She  at  once  went  forward  to  the  closed  door. 
As  she  placed  her  hand  upon  its  knob,  she  heard  him 
say,  in  tones  replete  with  agitation  and  menace : 
"  Take  care  —  take  care." 

But  she  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  felt  desper- 
ately goaded  and  stung.  In  another  moment  she  had 
glided  into  the  drawing-room.  Massereene  was  there, 
and  rose  as  she  entered.  She  left  the  door  open,  ex- 


OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE.  375 

pecting  that  her  husband  would  follow  her.  But  he 
did  not,  and  she  seated  herself,  indicating  by  a  slight 
motion  that  Massereene  should  do  the  same. 

"  You  seem  excited,"  he  murmured  to  her,  as  he 
dropped  upon  the  sofa  at  her  side. 

"I  am,"  she  could  not  help  acknowledging.  "Some- 
thing has  happened  —  something  most  distressing.  I 
am  not  sure  —  "  and  then  she  paused,  with  a  break 
in  her  voice  that  her  paleness  accentuated  to  him 
while  he  waited  for  her  to  speak  again.  "My  hus- 
band may  make  matters  unpleasant,"  she  went  on, 
much  more  evenly  and  calmly.  "  I  have  just  been 
greatly  annoyed  by  certain  words  that  he  has  ad- 
dressed to  me.  There  are  limits  to  one's  patience. 
I  confess  that  I  would  not  speak  thus  if  I  had  not  a 
fear — an  actual  fear  —  lest  he  may  seriously  embarrass 
us  both  by  — " 

But  Delaplaine  now  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room.  He  looked  perfectly  collected  and 
host-like.  In  another  minute  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  Massereene,  and  almost  jovially  congratulated 
his  guest  upon  the  virtue  of  punctuality. 

"  I  believe  dinner  is  served,"  he  continued,  with  his 
best  bow  —  the  bow  that  had  long  ago  helped  to  es- 
tablish him  as  a  favorite  in  the  haute  voice  of  a  now 
dead-and-gone  epoch.  "  Will  you  give  your  arm  to 
my  wife,  Mr.  Massereene  ? "  he  continued,  with  a 
little  burst  of  laughter.  "  I  will  walk  unaccom- 
panied behind  you.  I  will  imagine  that  I  have  on 
my  arm  the  most  delightful  and  charming  lady  in 
town  except  our  hostess.  .  .  .  Now,  there's  a  compli- 
ment to  my  wife,  Massereene ;  isn't  it  ?  And  rather 
creditable  for  an  old  fellow  past  sixty,  eh  ?  What  do 


376  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

you  think  of  it  for  a  proof  that  I'm  the  shining  type 
of  a  model  husband  ?  " 

Olivia  slipped  her  hand  into  Massereene's  proffered 
arm.  The  hand  trembled  and  she  could  not  but  be 
aware  that  he  was  conscious  of  this  betrayal.  "  What 
does  it  all  mean  ? "  she  was  silently  questioning  her- 
self. "  Will  some  horrid  thing  soon  occur,  or  does  he 
only  wish  to  torture  me  in  a  new  way,  after  having 
tortured  me  in  the  old  one  for  so  many  months." 

But  as  the  dinner  proceeded,  Delaplaine  gave  no 
signs  of  adopting  any  such  painful  course.  It  was 
not  long,  however,  before  he  had  turned  the  conver- 
sation between  Massereene  and  himself  into  a  some- 
what philosophic  channel.  And  by  degrees  his 
materialistic  views  clouded  his  discourse  more  and 
more  darkly,  till  Massereene,  accustomed  to  all 
forms  of  argument  among  his  English  university 
friends,  could  not  help  exclaiming ; 

"  You  denounce  as  autocratic  those  who  insist 
upon  that  '  one  far-off  divine  event  to  which  the 
whole  creation  moves.'  But  why  are  they  more 
daringly  d,  priori  than  those  who  affirm  the  direct 
contrary,  granting  that  both  sides  dispense  with  rev- 
elation as  a  kind  of  supernatural  support  ?  Is  it 
not,  when  all  has  been  said,  dogma  for  dogma? 
Only,  have  not  the  optimists  the  best  oi  the  dis- 
pute ?  For  my  part,  I  maintain  that  they  have  — 
immeasurably." 

"Ah,"  replied  Delaplaine,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  "  if  you  have  the  remotest  intention  of 
beginning  to  justify  and  account  for  the  whole  absurd 
series  of  phenomena  we  call  life  on  grounds  of  trans- 
cendentalism, you  will  find  me  a  rather  tough  contest- 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  377 

ant.  You  might  as  well  quote  Bishop  Butler  or  Paley 
to  me,  and  have  clone  with  it." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  quoting  either  author,"  re- 
plied Massereene.  "My  belief  is  something  quite 
apart  from  their  elaborate  efforts  to  prove  a  per- 
sonal Divinity." 

"You  mean  — your  belief  in  a  personal  Divinity?" 

"  No ;  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve,  there." 

"  Ah,  of  course.  From  the  purely  agnostic  vantage- 
ground  I  should  speak  in  the  same  consistent  terms  of 
formula.  But  a  minute  ago  you  mentioned  your  be- 
lief. Am  I  to  understand  by  this  word  your  faith  in 
the  posthumous  continuity  of  all  human  life,  with 
results  that  throw  satisfying  light  upon  every  present 
mystery?  or,  conversely,  your  denial  that  all  is  futil- 
ity, with  blind  forces  flung  accidentally  together  to 
create  consciousness  at  the  beginning,  and  the  disrup- 
tion of  these  forces,  with  annihilation  of  consciousness, 
at  the  end  ?  " 

"You  are  certainly  to  understand  my  denial,"  de- 
clared Massereene,  "  that  life  is  any  such  terrible  trav- 
esty as  this.  A  hundred  signs  point  oppositely." 

"  Give  me  one,"  said  Delaplaine,  while  he  selected  a 
plump  Spanish  olive  and  began  to  nibble  it. 

"  The  existence  of  mind  as  an  apex,  a  terminus,  of 
nature's  many  grades  and  degrees  of  performance. 
Man's  possibility  of  progression  is  boundless.  His 
divine  destiny  cannot  be  misinterpreted.  He  has 
but  to  speak,  to  think,  to  feel,  and  he  has  suggested 
his  own  heirship  to  eternity." 

Delaplaine  smiled,  while  he  still  made  little  bites  at 
his  olive  with  his  white,  well-preserved  teeth,  holding 
it  in  a  gingerly  way  between  thumb  and  finger. 


378  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"  Bah,  my  dear  fellow,  you  talk  like  a  poet.  Can- 
didly, if  I  had  my  say,  I  should  render  .all  people  who 
were  tried  and  found  guilty  of  being  poets,  unable 
either  to  inherit  or  purchase  property,  besides  taking 
away  their  privileges  at  the  polls.  The  truth  is  simply 
this :  for  about  five  thousand  years  past,  man  has  been 
ceaselessly  endeavoring  to  find  out  whence  he  came, 
whither  he  is  going,  and  why  he  is  here  at  all." 

"  He  has  probably  been  doing  it  for  a  much  longer 
time  than  five  thousand  years." 

"  Oh,  we'll  say  two  or  three  millions,  if  you  please. 
I  dare  say  it  took  a  very  great  while  longer  for  the 
ape  to  reach  even  the  rudimentary  human  biped.  But 
we  know  that  man's  inquiries  as  to  the  whence  and 
whither  of  his  fate  have  certainly  been  going  on  for 
about  that  period  of  five  thousand  years.  And  in  all 
the  monstrous  interval  thus  employed,  what  has  he 
learned  ?  Nothing.  He  has  prostrated  himself  before 
the  gods  of  many  and  many  a  separate  theogony.  He 
has  spilled  seas  of  blood  in  the  defence  of  his  different 
creeds.  But  to-day  the  sphinx  holds  the  secret  just  as 
firmly  as  ever.  Now,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  we 
are  beginning  to  make  up  our  minds  that  there  is  no 
secret  at  all.  We  are  concerning  ourselves  with 
matter,  and  we  are  gradually  arriving  at  the  rational 
conclusion  that  matter  begins  everything  and  ends 
everything." 

"Do  you  imply,  then,  that  we  are  approaching 
atheism  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Olivia,  "  that  is  horrible  even  to  think 
of!" 

Delaplaine  took  no  notice  of  her  exclamation.     "All 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  379 

the  great  modern  thinkers,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
Massereene,  "  are  atheists  at  heart.  They  pretend 
that  they  are  not,  but  science  is  their  gospel;  and 
science,  the  more  facts  that  she  gathers,  grows  the 
more  certain  of  how  many  picturesque  falsehoods 
have  been  circulated  in  the  name  of  metaphysics." 

*'  Science  pauses  at  the  unknowable,"  said  Masse- 
reene, "  but  she  does  not  presume  to  postulate  beyond 
it.  She  leaves  the  spiritual  part  of  the  question  alone, 
and  rightly.  But  she  does  not,  for  this  reason,  assert 
that  no  vast  realm  of  marvellous  supervision  lies  outside 
her  powers  of  perception  or  analysis.  I  remember  no 
instance  among  the  writings  of  these  thinkers  to  whom 
you  have  alluded  where  they  can  be  credited  with 
stating  that  a  supreme  Providence  fails  to  overlook 
and  direct  the  whole  inscrutable  plan." 

"  No,  they  don't  state  it,  but  what  do  they  infer  ? 
Far  more  than  that,  what  does  the  immense  misery 
and  sorrow  inflicted  upon  the  race  at  large  infer  ?  It 
is  when  we  take  a  broad  view  of  this  "inscrutable 
plan "  that  we  discern  how  faint,  how  feeble  is  the 
testimony  it  furnishes  of  an  intelligence  in  the  least 
concerned  with  its  welfare.  Millions  of  people  are 
now  staggering,  throughout  the  globe  under  a  yoke 
of  drudgery.  A  few  are  prosperous  and  compara- 
tively happy  in  all  lands.  Disease  fastens  upon  those 
whom  affection  guards,  dragging  them  to  untimely 
death.  Nature,  the  inveterate  enemy  of  mankind, 
destroys  by  earthquake,  cyclone,  malarial  infection, 
pest,  shipwreck  and  the  numberless  ills  through  which 
she  is  ever  proving  to  us  that  the  sentimentalists  have 
lied  about  her  sympathy  and  her  kindliness.  Science 
conquers  her  dumb,  stolid  enmity  in  the  steamship, 


380  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

the  railway,  the  telegraph,  the  telephone.  But  Nature, 
still  an  unlaid  foe,  inflicts  her  innumerable  ills  upon 
the  race.  Meanwhile,  prayers  and  hymns  of  worship 
go  up  from  the  churches,  and  what  answer  do  they 
receive?  None.  We  find  in  ourselves  the  sole  remedy 
for  the  enormous  misfortune  of  existence.  And  it  is  a 
very  meagre  one.  Our  hospitals  and  asylums  keep 
from  us,  in  centres  of  civilization,  the  full  sadness  and 
horror.  Our  prisons  aid  too,  for  they  hide  the  moral 
maladies  as  well  as  they  can.  Something  perpetu- 
ally compels  man  to  hope,  to  bear  up  —  to  eat  his 
dinner,  when  he  can  get  it,  and  not  fix  too  acute  a 
gaze  upon  the  general  wretchedness  of  his  lot.  He 
is  really  a  captive,  cursed  with  a  durance  that  has 
clutched  him  for  the  crime  of  having  been  born.  But 
he  is  more  than  a  mere  captive,  since  he  is  one  con- 
tinually under  sentence  of  death.  And  those  whom 
he  loves  are  under  a  like  sentence ;  at  any  moment 
they  may  be  torn  from  him,  making  his  custody  still 
more  like  the  caprice  of  a  tyrant.  When  he  sees  the 
whole  despotism  in  its  darkest  hues  and  has  the  bold- 
ness to  affirm  life  the  unsolicited  oppression  that  it  is, 
he  receives  the  condescending  commiseration  of  those 
who  wilfully  darken  their  sight  and  stuff  their  ears. 
He  is  called  '  morbid,'  and  '  unhealthy,'  and  '  a  brooder.' 
By  shibboleths  like  these  he  is  denounced  and  silenced. 
Poets  foam  at  the  mouth  before  him  in  their  illogical 
epilepsies  which  they  call  'divination.'  Religion  tries 
to  crush  him  with  its  tomes  of  '  revealed  truth.'  He  is 
only  a  poor  wretch  of  a  pessimist.  He  can't  hear  the 
music  of  the  spheres,  or  the  choruses  of  the  seraphim. 
He  can  hear  other  sounds,  however  —  very  earthly 
ones,  like  groans  and  sobs  and  cries  for  help.  He  is 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  381 

compelled  to  cloak  his  '  morbidness,'  or  his  most  influ- 
ential friends  will  cut  him,  and  that  may  be  a  question 
of  his  bread-and-butter.  But  all  the  while,  poor  fellow, 
he  has  only  told  the  truth  about  life.  It's  a  king  with 
a  coffin  for  a  throne,  death  herself  for  a  queen-consort, 
despair  for  a  prime  minister,  and  religion  for  a  court- 
jester.  .  .  .  There's  poetry  for  you,  Massereene,  as 
you  seem  to  be  fond  of  the  muse." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  convey  the  real  effect  of 
these  sentences  as  they  fell  from  Delaplaine's  lips,  each 
one  being  spoken  with  an  air  of  indifference,  if  not 
positive  languor.  His  voice  never  once  rose  above  the 
most  ordinary  conversational  pitch  ;  and,  delivered 
with  a  glacial  disregard  of  all  rhetorical  parade,  every 
phrase  he  uttered  seemed  to  acquire  a  new  pungency. 

"  I  am  fond  enough  of  poetry,"  returned  Massereene, 
"but  not  of  that  kind  —  one  which  reminds  me  of  a 
certain  French  poetic  school  that  prides  itself  upon 
wholly  ignoring  the  spiritual  side  of  life.  I  confess 
that  I  cannot  honestly  contradict  anything  you  have 
said ;  but  there  is  to  me  proof  of  the  infinite  meaning 
and  potency  of  life  in  the  thought  that  two  diverse 
lines  of  vision  may  touch  it  in  such  totally  varying 
ways.  The  unhappiness  that  afflicts  humanity  is 
broken  by  gleams  and  flashes  of  the  most  exquisite 
joy  and  contentment.  Scarcely  a  single  man  has  ever 
lived  who  cannot  truthfully  assert  this  of  his  mortal 
career.  But  when  he  lives  unselfishly,  when  he  nur- 
tures within  his  own  soul  impulses  of  generous  concern 
with  the  misfortunes  and  misdeeds  of  his  fellows,  then, 
in  proportion  as  he  grows  less  occupied  by  personal 
fears  and  hopes,  the  more  does  he  realize  how  magnifi- 
cent may  be  the  incumbency  which  before  has  seemed 


382  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

so  doom-like  and  so  dispiriting.  The  finer  agnosticism, 
then,  offers  him  beautiful  rewards  for  perished  ortho- 
dox faith.  He  comprehends  that  to  live  duteously, 
sacrificially,  cannot  be  to  live  in  vain.  He  finds  that 
ever)  though  the  farther  side  of  the  grave  may  hold  an 
eternal  void  and  blank,  this  side  of  it  teems  with  a 
potential  godliness.  Reason  may  repulse  with  its 
insuperable  bounds,  but  the  deeper  that  he  probes  the 
sources  of  philanthropy  the  more  clearly  he  becomes 
aware  from  what  sacred  fountain-heads  these  have 
sprung.  Where  one  may  discern  such  riches  of 
spirituality  as  those  manifest  in  a  chaste,  altruistic 
life  here  on  earth,  it  does  not  seem  hard  to  let  imagi- 
nation do  reason's  work,  and  point  to  some  statelier 
disembodied  condition.  Still,  evolution,  from  the 
marvels  it  has  already  shown  us,  may  mean  so  glo- 
rious a  rise,  for  the  race  if  not  for  the  individual,  that 
in  the  mighty  pulse  and  push  of  this  great  energy  alone 
may  lie  our  sole  attainable  heaven." 

"You  are  laudably  cautious,"  loitered  Delaplaine, 
watching  the  almost  rapt  look  that  had  overspread  his 
wife's  face  while  Massereene  had  spoken  —  her  parted 
lips,  her  glistening  eyes,  and  the  tender  tremor  of 
either  nostril  —  though  Olivia  was  herself  quite  una- 
ware of  having  provoked  his  attention.  "  You  outline 
a  Paradise  for  the  race  and  not  for  the  individual. 
And  evolution  is  to  bring  about  all  that  millennial  state 
of  things,  eh  ?  How  about  dissolution,  then  ?  This 
relatively  small  sun  and  tiny  earth  of  ours  will  sooner 
or  later,  according  to  the  very  law  you  instance,  be 
two  cinders  whirling  through  space.  Astronomy  as- 
sures us  that  many  a  solar  system  has  burned  itself 
out,  and  that  the  mementos  of  these  are  dark  and 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  383 

frozen  worlds,  which  swing  round  their  dark  and 
frozen  luminaries  in  the  most  ghastly  way  conceivable. 
Here  is  the  priceless  lesson  that  evolution  teaches  us ! 
I  fail  to  see  the  necessity  of  progression  and  ameliora- 
tion, if  it  brings  us  a  heaven  based  on  such  perishable 
foundations." 

"  I  am  far  from  believing  that  the  individual  is  cut 
off  from  all  entity  after  death,"  Massereene  replied, 
while  a  shade  of  annoyance  crossed  his  face  at  being, 
as  it  struck  him,  maliciously  misconstrued.  "How 
can  one  touch  these  subjects  except  he  does  so  in  a 
speculative  fashion  ?  If  I  were  to  put  my  creed  in  a 
few  words,  I  should  say  that  I  am  an  agnostic,  but  a 
very  reverential  and  idealistic  one.  No  tidings  may 
yet  have  reached  us,  but  on  this  account  we  should  by 
no  means  be  comfortless." 

"  Comfortless !  "  cried  Olivia,  wholly  forgetting  her- 
self and  stretching  forth  one  hand  until  it  rested  on 
Massereene's  wrist ;  "  I  am  not  comfortless,  but  ah, 
how  miserable  it  would  make  me  if  I  thought  no  tid- 
ings had  reached  us ! "  She  paused,  and  with  flushing 
cheek  drew  her  hand  away ;  she  had  caught  her  hus- 
band's eye,  and  its  cloudy  look  had  made  her  guiltily 
conscious  of  what  was,  after  all,  the  most  harmless  bit 
of  friendliness. 

"We  three,"  said  Mnssereene,  somewhat  with  the 
air  of  a  person  who  wishes  to  fill  an  awkward  pause, 
"  represent  three  separate  forms  of  mental  growth." 

"Decidedly  separate  —  in  my  wife's  case,"  muttered 
Delaplaine,  with  a  stinging  dryness.  "But  women 
would  be  lost  without  religion,  I  suppose.  I  can't 
recall  any  who  did  not  possess  it  and  were  not  more 
or  less  depraved."  He  now  rose  from  the  table; 


384  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

dessert  had  been  served  ;  Olivia  was  prepared  to  have 
him  propose  a  cigar  with  Massereene  upstairs  in  the 
library.  But,  to  her  surprise,  he  said : 

"I  have  an  engagement  which  will  detain  me  for 
two  hours  or  so.  I  must  be  among  a  lot  of  financial 
fellows  by  nine  o'clock  to  discuss  the  advisability  of  a 
government  loan  which  I  have  already  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  be  advisable.  I  would  much  prefer  to 
remain  here  and  talk  with  you  of  less  tangible  and 
mundane  matters  —  in  my  materialistic  way."  He 
shot  a  furtive  look  at  Olivia  while  ending  the  last 
sentence.  She  understood  (or  believed  that  she  un- 
derstood) this  look,  as  signifying  that  his  own  side  of 
the  conversation  with  Massereene  had  been  visibly  if 
silently  disapproved  by  her.  And  indeed,  she  had 
loathed  both  to  watch  and  to  listen  while  he  vented 
what  she  considered  his  odious  ideas  and  theories.  It 
had  occurred  to  her,  once  or  twice,  that  he  might  have 
some  desire  to  show  Massereene  in  a  worsted  and 
humiliated  plight,  stricken  by  the  lances  of  the  Dela- 
plaine  logic.  But  it  would  have  taken  a  whole  arsenal 
of  such  weapons,  each  one  wielded  by  a  most  brilliant 
adept  in  their  use,  to  have  made  Olivia's  firm  faitli 
waver  or  tremble. 

Her  husband  now  went  on,  still  addressing  Masse- 
reene: "I  must  apologize  for  this  summary  exit; 
but  probably  yon  won't  mind  letting  Mrs.  Delaplaine 
have  your  society  for  the  next  hour  or  so."  (Those 
last  few  words  were,  for  Olivia,  fairly  steeped  in  the 
most  acrid  sarcasm.)  "I  am  sure  iny  wife  will  not 
object  to  your  smoking;  but  my  library,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  it,  is  the  pleasanter  room  for  that.  .  .  . 
Edward  "  (to  the  butler)  "  you  know  where  my  cigars 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  385 

are  to  be  found.  ...  It  is  possible  tbat  I  may  return 
before  you  depart.  But  in  case  I  do  not,  I  will  say 
good  evening  now.  .  .  ." 

Olivia  was  not  at  all  averse  to  ascending  with  Mas- 
sereene  into  her  husband's  library.  Delaplaine's  prop- 
osition that  she  should  do  so  astonished  her  almost  as 
much  as  his  sudden  withdrawal  from  the  dinner-table. 
But  his  appearance  in  the  Academy  of  Design  and  his 
invitation  to  her  companion  afterward  had  both  been 
astonishing.  This  third  little  coup  de  thedtre,  as  she 
could  not  help  secretly  thinking  it,  was  productive  of 
a  still  greater  amazement. 

"  I  doubt  if  he  has  any  engagement  whatever,"  she 
now  said  to  her  own  thoughts.  "  He  wishes  to  mystify, 
to  bewilder  me  by  a  little  train  of  eccentricities.  Per- 
haps he  has  seen  that  he  cannot  wrangle  successfully 
with  Massereene  and  not  become  merely  insolent,  so 
concludes  to  retire  and  brood  over  some  new  means  of 
provoking  my  future  irritation." 

"You  have  never  seen  this  room?"  she  said  with  a 
forced  lightness  to  Massereene,  after  they  had  entered 
the  library.  "  It  is  pretty,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Exceedingly  pretty,"  her  guest  answered.  The 
shaded  lamp,  and  one  or  two  dim-lit  gas-jets  in  the 
chandelier  above  it,  threw  just  the  requisite  illumina- 
tion upon  rich-toned  walls,  low  book-cases,  infrequent 
yet  rare  objects  of  ornament,  and  carpet,  rugs,  table- 
cloth and  tapestries  of  the  most  admirably  harmonious 
hues.  Across  a  wide  doorway  at  some  distance  from 
the  commodious  chairs  in  which  Olivia  and  Massereene 
now  seated  themselves  hung  a  heavy  curtain  of  velvet 
on  rings  attached  to  a  gilded  rod.  Beyond  this  cur- 
tain, lay  Delaplaine's  own  suite  of  apartments.  Olivia 


386  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  that  her  husband  had 
not  already  left  the  house.  She  and  Massereene  had 
talked  together  in  the  dining-room  over  their  fruit  and 
coffee  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Delaplaine 
had  disappeared.  They  had  said  very  ordinary  things 
to  one  another,  and  now,  when  the  man  at  her  side 
made  reference  to  their  brief  colloquy  just  before 
dinner,  his  quiet  but  serious  change  of  subject  affected 
her  with  a  startling  sense  of  abruptness. 

"  You  spoke  there,  in  the  drawing-room,"  he  began, 
"of  a  certain  fear  that  seemed  to  bear  upon  your 
husband's  forthcoming  behavior.  .  .  .  Well,  you  were 
agreeably  disappointed,  were  you  not?  He"  did  not 
make  matters  unpleasant,  after  all  —  unless  one  takes 
into  consideration  your  dislike  of  his  cheerless  tenets 
and  canons." 

"Those  chill  me  whenever  I  am  obliged  to  hear 
them,"  she  answered.  "But  no  it  was  not  to  them 

that  I  alluded.  He  had  been  saying "  But  now 

her  voice  sank,  while  the  color  slowly  dyed  her  face. 
"Well,  I  can't  tell  it,"  she  broke  off  impetuously. 
"  Never  mind  what  he  said  or  did  —  or  threatened." 

"Threatened?"  Massereene  repeated  very  sharply, 
and  with  an  unmistakable  note  of  query  in  his  tones. 

She  gazed  steadily  into  his  dark,  manful  face.  How 
capable  he  looked  of  bravely  defending  one  for  whom 
he  cared  !  But  she  drooped  her  eyes  a  moment  after- 
ward. 

"Threatened,  I  mean,  to  —  to  distress  me  in  your 
presence.  No  matter  how."  Here  she  again  lifted 
her  eyes  and  gave  a  little  perturbed  laugh.  "  Dear, 
dear,  I  am  always  wanting  to  talk  of  'something  else' 
with  you  lately,  am  I  not?" 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  387 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  of  something  else,"  said  Masse- 
reene,  staring  down  at  the  ruby  end  of  the  cigar  which 
she  had  herself  lighted  for  him  not  long  ago.  "I 
wonder  though  if  you  will  think  now  a  time  for  it. 
Perhaps  you  will  not.  I  shall  remember  that  you 
promised  me  your  confidence,  but  I  shall  not  seek  to 
force  from  you,  however  gently,  its  expression.  Entre 
Parbre  et  Vecorce  ne  mettez pas  le  doigt" 

"You  mean  about  how  I  strove  to  atone  for  my 
fault  —  the  fault  of  my  marriage  —  and  how  I  failed  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

There  was  quite  a  long  pause  between  them  now. 
Olivia  had  lowered  her  eyes  again,  and  somehow  it 
seemed  to  him  who  watched  her  as  if  their  glan  ce  had 
fallen  upon  the  wedding-ring  that  shone,  among  others, 
from  the  small  white  knot  which  her  clasped  hands 
were  making  in  her  lap.  And  presently  she  began 
to  speak,  without  altering  either  her  attitude  or  her 
countenance. 

"  I  told  myself  that  I  had  committed  a  sin  by 
marrying  as  I  did.  But  I  had  bowed  my  head  under 
the  yoke,  and  I  must  wear  that  yoke  with  fortitude 
until  death  —  his  death,  most  probably  —  disburdened 
me  of  it.  I  would  endure  the  full  consequences  of 
my  own  sordid  piece  of  ambition  ;  I  would  neither 
flinch  nor  murmur.  .  .  .  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  God 
had  already  forgiven  me.  .  .  .  (You  see,  I  cannot 
speak  of  God  in  your  way ;  when  I  think  of  Him  at 
all  He  is  a  living,  breathing  presence  to  me,  and  in  all 
sympathetic  sense  as  human  as  He  is  in  other  senses 
divine.)  But  soon  I  discovered  how  greatly  I  had 
erred.  A  very  hard  task  was  before  me."  She  now 
spoke  on  for  many  minutes,  describing  the  humilia- 


388  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

tion,  impertinence,  and  generally  deplorable  treatment 
to  which,  during  months  and  months  after  their  mar- 
riage, Spencer  Delaplaine  had  subjected  her. 

"But  at  last,"  she  pursued,  "I — I  broke  down;  I 
gave  way.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  There  is  no 
need  of  my  telling  you  just  why  this  miserable  col- 
lapse of  mine  occurred.  But  it  did  occur,  and  with  the 
debdcle  of  my  strong  self-scourging  resolves,  I  grew 
desperate  and  disdainful.  I  amazed  him  by  the  heat 
and  intensity  of  my  revolt.  I  poured  out  my  re- 
proaches upon  him;  I  warned  him  that  except  on 
certain  conditions  I  would  not  live  under  his  roof, 
but  would  go  to  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Ottarson.  .  .  .  Well, 
circumstances  arranged  so  that  a  particular  demand 
which  he  had  made  of  me  and  which  I  had  refused  to 
grant,  could  neither  be  enforced  nor  disregarded.  A 
kind  of  compromise  has  been  the  result.  There  are 
times,  however,  when  his  treatment  makes  me  dread 
a  recurrence  of  those  former  piercing  aggravations. 
.  .  .  And  I  cannot  suffer  them  to  be  resumed  without 
resenting  them  ...  I  have  told  you  all  that  I  —  I 
deem  it  best  to  tell  regarding  his  methods  of  render- 
ing me  unhappy.  If  they  are  resumed,  do  you  not 
think  it  would  be  wiser  for  me  to  leave  him  ?  " 

"  To  leave  him  ?  "  echoed  Massereene  in  a  meditat- 
ing tone  ..."  Yes ! "  he  suddenly  burst  forth,  his 
voice  ringing  as  if  a  transport  of  passionate  pity  had 
seized  him.  " By  all  means,  yes!" 

"  This  is  your  advice  to  me  ?  " 

"It  is  my  advice." 

"You  do  not  think  it  would  be  unpardonable  weak- 
ness in  me,  after  having  entered  into  such  a  marriage 
of  my  own  free  will,  to " 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  389 

"  Oh,  absurdity ! "  cried  Massereene,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "Your  own  free  will  ?  Why,  has  not  your 
own  story  made  it  as  plain  as  day  to  me  that  you  were 
deceived,  played  upon,  absolutely  bedevilled  by  that 
man  and  your  two  heartless  aunts?  You,  almost  a 
child  !  I  don't  think  you  understand  the  strength  of 
the  influence  that  they  exerted.  I  believe  there  is 
hardly  a  girl  living  who  would  not  have  yielded  under 
the  stress  of  such  persuasion  as  that  brought  to  bear 
upon  you  then !  I " 

He  paused,  for  Olivia  had  given  a  quick,  shrill  cry, 
and  risen.  She  was  looking  toward  the  large  velvet 
curtain  at  the  farther  end  of  the  chamber.  It  had 
been  partially  withdrawn,  and  with  his  face  showing 
very  pale  indeed  against  its  dusky  background. 
Spencer  Delaplaine  was  standing  just  in  front  of 
it.  He  had  heard  every  word  of  the  recent  conver- 
sation between  Olivia  and  Massereene. 


390  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XXI. 

DURING  about  as  long  a  time  as  it  would  take  for 
any  one  in  a  leisurely  manner  to  count  ten,  there 
reigned  complete  silence  in  the  library.  Neither 
Olivia  nor  Massereene  was  at  all  sure  that  the  master 
of  the  house  had  been  playing  eavesdropper.  But  his 
extreme  pallor,  mixed  with  an  accusative  tension  of 
the  lips  and  a  slight  but  distinct  clouding  of  the  brows, 
gradually  rendered  this  conclusion  almost  a  certainty. 
And  while  both  were  making  up  their  minds  how  it 
would  be  best  to  break  a  silence  every  new  instant  of 
which  was  growing  more  severely  painful,  Delaplaine 
himself  spoke,  with  the  huskiness  of  an  ungovernable 
wrath. 

He  advanced  toward  Massereene,  raising  one  hand 
rather  with  denunciation  than  with  any  hint  of  assault. 

"So  you  dare,  sir,"  he  cried,  "to  advise  my  wife 
that  she  shall  leave  me  ?  Is  this  what  you  call  being 
a  gentleman?  I'm,  of  course,  no  match  for  you  in 

strength,  but  by  G if  you  do  not  leave  this  house 

at  once,  rascally  prig  and  charlatan  that  you've  shown 
yourself,  I'll  .  .  ." 

Massereene,  pale  from  the  shock  of  insult,  here  ut- 
tered a  suppressed  cry  ;  but  his  doing  so  was  not  the 
reason  for  Delaplaine  having  paused.  The  latter  had 
just  lifted  one  hand  to  his  throat  as  though  assailed 
by  a  fit  of  choking.  In  another  instant  his  eyes 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  391 

closed,  and  then  rapidly  re-opened,  with  a  dilated  and 
glassy  stare.  These  changes  had  taken  so  little  time 
that  Massereene,  through  some  oblique  effect  of  the 
light,  and  no  doubt  because  of  his  indignation  as  well, 
had  not  perceived  them.  He  was  even  about  to  frame 
a  retort  that  would  have  told  his  anger  most  unspar- 
ingly, when  he  saw  the  form  of  Delaplaine  sway  and 
then  fall  with  piteous  heaviness  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

He  was  unconscious  when  uplifted,  and  he  had  sus- 
tained an  abrasion  of  one  side  of  the  head  near  the 
temple,  which  bled  profusely  and  distressingly,  and 
which  had,  in  the  opinion  of  at  least  one  physician 
who  attended  him,  saved  his  life  after  the  violent 
apoplectic  stroke  imperilled  it. 

Olivia  had  no  recollection  of  parting  from  Jasper 
Massereene  that  night.  She  was  in  a  state  of  pathetic 
turmoil;  it  seemed  to  her  that  if  her  husband  died 
she  would  be  steeped  in  shame  for  the  rest  of  her  life- 
time. They  had  carried  him  upstairs,  and  she  stood 
half  the  night  listening  at  the  door  of  his  chamber,  in 
tremors  lest  the  announcement  that  he  had  died  should 
freeze  her  already  palpitating  nerves.  If  she  had 
wantonly  violated  those  marriage  vows  taken  in  that 
same  room  near  which  she  now  kept  eager  vigil  —  and 
taken  there  with  such  uncanny  gloom  of  accompani- 
ment !  —  she  could  not  have  been  more  despondently 
the  prey  of  remorse. 

"Mine  is  indeed  an  heirship  of  misfortune,"  she 
declared  to  herself  while  she  waited  in  the  dimness  of 
the  outer  hall,  kept  by  a  sluggish  horror  at  the  heart 
from  entering  the  room  where  he  lay  and  assuming 
there  the  post  or  duties  of  an  ordinary  wife.  "  I  begin 
to  think  that  Jasper  Massereene  may  have  been  right 


392  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

—  that  I  was  dragged  into  that  marriage.  And  then 
all  the  sorrow  and  struggle  that  has  followed  it !  And 
now  this  new  torment  of  having  been  implicated  in 
his  death  !  For  even  although  he  survives  the  present 
attack,  I  sha.ll  always  feel  as  if  his  life  may  have  been 
shortened  by  me  !  " 

He  did  survive  the  present  attack,  and  of  course 
Olivia's  desolation  of  spirit  did  not  abide  by  any  means 
as  darksome  as  while  the  shadow  of  death  hung  most 
menacingly  over  her  husband.  But  the  self-rebuking, 
penitential  mood  had  not  departed.  For  a  fortnight 
her  husband  lay  quite  speechless,  and  only  conscious 
at  intervals.  During  this  period  (at  any  minute  of 
which  he  might  suddenly  have  ceased  to  live)  Olivia 
bestowed  upon  him  her  most  devoted  attention.  The 
ice  once  broken,  in  so  far  as  concerned  her  appearance 
at  his  bedside,  she  left  no  effort  untried  to  preserve  a 
life  for  whose  extinction  she  felt  that  she  would  be  at 
least  partially  culpable.  But  this  impression  began  to 
vanish  after  a  while  ;  it  was  expelled  from  her  mind, 
so  to  speak,  by  the  salutary  forces  of  health,  just  as 
foreign  element  is  cast  out  from  the  flesh  by  pure 
blood.  Olivia  was  herself  too  healthy  to  brood  long 
over  an  entirely  imaginary  fault.  In  all  her  relations 
with  Jasper  Massereene,  she  had  been  thoroughly 
guiltless,  and  this  fact  could  not  but  thrust  its  knowl- 
edge, like  some  vivid  beacon-ray  of  encouragement, 
through  the  tempest  of  her  trouble. 

Still,  she  refused  to  receive  Massereene,  though  he 
came  again  and  again  to  see  her.  At  last  she  wrote 
him.  The  letter  was  extremely  difficult  of  composi- 
tion, because  her  avowed  reasons  for  desiring  to  break 
their  friendship  once  and  for  all,  played  about  prov- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  393 

inces  of  mutual  relationship  describable  only  in  terms 
that  repelled  her  by  an  undue  warmth.  "  I  cannot  tell 
him,"  she  mused,  "  that  his  society  has  for  weeks  past 
been  so  dear  to  me  as  now  to  make  our  separation  a 
positive  trial."  .  .  .  And  yet  she  did  write  very  much 
in  this  strain.  But  her  refusal  to  meet  him  again  was 
absolute.  "  Our  intimacy,"  she  wrote,  "  must  end  for 
the  present.  If  I  were  to  put  in  words  just  why  it 
cannot  now  be  resumed,  I  should  run  one  of  two  risks : 
I  might  wound  you  by  too  bluntly  dealing  with  a 
friendly  regard  of  which  I  have  had  such  ample  proof; 
or,  still  worse,  I  might  soil  in  your  eyes  those  gossamer 
things,  my  womanly  delicacy  and  dignity,  by  reference 
to  impediments  both  needlessly  and  cruelly  reared." 

It  was  a  good  fortnight  longer  before  Delaplaine 
was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  He  now  spoke,  choos- 
ing his  words,  at  first,  with  so  much  hesitancy  and 
deliberation  that  aphasia  (most  deplorable  of  infirmi- 
ties) became  dreaded  by  his  watchers.  But  this  threat 
passed  away,  and  it  was  soon  found  that  the  invalid 
could  speak  quite  as  intelligently  and  fluently  as  ever. 

A  little  while  afterward,  indeed,  he  began  speaking 
to  Olivia,  and  showed  that  none  of  his  old  cynicism 
had  left  him.  He  was  still  exceedingly  feeble,  and 
could  not  move  about  unassisted,  one  arm  and  one  leg 
being  partially  paralyzed. 

A  great  many  of  Olivia's  new  fashionable  friends 
now  paid  her  visits  of  etiquette,  but  for  very  few  did 
she  permit  herself  to  be  "  at  home."  Of  course,  when 
the  Auchinclosses  or  Satterthwaites  called,  she  was 
obliged  to  see  them  —  or,  rather  she  chose,  however 
inwardly  disinclined,  to  pay  the  sisters  of  her  dead 
father  this  courteous  tribute.  And  yet  the  presence  of 


394  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

either  lady  was  a  stringent  reminder  to  her  of  that 
strange  episode  from  which  a  certain  amount  of  hollow 
splendor  and  a  very  great  deal  of  solid,  remorseful 
misery  had  been  born.  Mrs.  Auchincloss .  came  with 
Madeleine,  just  as  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  afterward  came 
with  Emrneline.  There  was  something  almost  super- 
human to  Olivia  in  the  deceit  of  self  (if  that  were 
really  the  proper  name  for  what  she  was  often  tempted 
to  call  quackery  and  mealy-mouthedness)  which  her 
Aunt  Letitia  and  that  formal  precisian,  Miss  Madeleine, 
were  capable  of  exhibiting.  They  both  had  not  the 
slightest  suspicion  that  Spencer  Delaplaine's  death 
would  cause  sorrow  to  his  wife.  They  were  indeed 
both  very  safely  confident  that  such  an  event  would 
produce  relief  rather  than  regret.  Nevertheless,  Mrs. 
Auchincloss  announced,  with  her  head  put  a  little 
sideways,  and  her  tones  adjusted  in  precisely  the  right 
commiserating  key : 

"  Madeleine  and  I  want  you  to  feel,  my  dear,  that  in 
this  hour  of  bitter  trial  you  can  command  our  services 
just  as  you  know  that  you  do  command  our  sym- 
pathies." 

"Yes,  Cousin  Olivia,"  supplemented  Madeleine,  with 
her  ascetic  smile.  "  If  ever  one's  blood  relations  should 
feel  it  their  duty  to  be  near  one,  it  is  at  just  such  times 
of  suffering  as  these." 

Olivia  looked  into  her  aunt's  eyes  until  they  fell,  as 
she  responded  :  "  It  is  not  so  much  a  question  of  suffer- 
ing as  of  suspense." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Auchincloss,  glad  to  seize  on 
any  pretext  for  airing  (what  she  would  have  thought 
you  a  most  horrible  person  if  you  had  refused  to  be- 
lieve) her  "humanity";  "the  suspense  must  be  really 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  395 

frightful.     And  do  the  doctors  give  you  any  decided 
hope  that  he  will  recover?" 

This  was  during  the  first  few  days  after  Delaplaine's 
seizure,  when  the  doctors  had  given  very  little  "hope." 
Mrs.  Satterthwaite  and  Emmeline  paid  their  visit 
somewhat  later.  The  contrast  between  themselves 
and  their  kinswomen  had  in  it  a  degree  of  real  re- 
freshment to  Olivia.  They  were  so  politely  and  non- 
committally  brutal  on  the  subject  of  Delaplaine's  ill- 
ness. Perhaps  little  Lulu's  death  had  had  its 
permanently  softening  influence  upon  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite, but  if  this  were  true,  she  did  not  in  the 
least  reveal  any  such  attendrissement  to  the  world 
at  large.  The  facets  of  her  personality  remained  as 
hard  and  clean  cut  as  ever.  Already  no  one  in  the 
family  ever  spoke  of  Lulu  ;  it  was  such  a  painful 
subject.  Emmeline  had  occasionally  referred  to  her 
dead  little  sister,  but  both  her  mother  and  Elaine  had 
assured  her  that  every  time  she  did  so  it  sent  through 
them  a  kind  of  nervous  chill.  Aspinwall's  unhappy 
return  to  the  home  of  his  parents,  late  on  the  night 
that  Lulu  breathed  her  last,  formed  doubtless,  a  rea- 
son for  this  excessive  sensitiveness.  If  Augusta  Sat- 
terthwaite had  any  love  in  her  soul  it  was  for  the  son 
who  had  come  reeling  into  the  house  of  death  that 
night ;  and  there  was  a  ghastly  enough  melancholy 
to  her  about  this  entire  incident  for  its  recollection 
to  prove  both  abiding  and  acute.  Still,  "  Aspy  "  had 
been  forgiven  not  long  afterward.  His  father  held 
out  the  most  obdurately  of  any  one  —  a  circumstance 
doubly  annoying  to  the  young  gentleman,  because  it 
involved  not  merely  a  plethora  of  disapprobation  but 
a  dearth  of  pocket-money.  Mrs.  Satterthwaite  ulti- 


396  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

mately  talked  her  husband,  however,  into  a  more 
indulgent  frame  of  mind,  and  Aspimvall  gave  his 
mother  a  drawled-out  promise  that  he  "  wouldn't 
touch  any  spirits,  don't  you  know,  for  a  whole 
year."  He  kept  this  oath  of  penance  exactly  two 
weeks.  But  it  was  quite  late  when  he  came  from 
Delrnonico's  on  the  night  that  he  broke  it.  Nobody 
saw  him  or  heard  him  enter  the  house  ;  they  were  all 
sleeping  almost  as  soundly  in  their  warm,  wide  beds 
as  poor  little  Lulu  was  sleeping  in  her  cold  and  nar- 
row one.  After  a  short  time  his  violation  of  his  word 
transpired  among  them.  And  when  it  did,  nobody 
thought  Aspy  had  committed  so  very  dreadful  an 
offence.  Even  his  father,  who  had  been  so  severe 
with  him  at  first,  was  finally  heard  to  say :  "  Poor 
young  rascal,  I  hardly  see  how  he  could  get  along 
without  taking  an  occasional  drink.  I  suppose  that 
ass  of  a  Chichey  Auchincloss  could;  but  thank  God, 
Aspy  isn't  cut  after  his  pattern." 

Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  to  whom  these  remarks  were 
chiefly  addressed,  answered  them  in  a  tone  that 
evinced  regret  for  the  lie  of  her  son,  however  she 
may  have  felt  willing  to  condone  his  vinous  habit 
on  grounds  of  easy,  fashionable  indulgence  among 
youths  of  Aspinwall's  age.  "  But  the  boy  was  only 
asked  that  his  promise  should  relate  to  spirituous 
liquors"  she  said.  "It  allowed  him  still  to  drink 
wine  whenever  he  pleased." 

"  I  know,"  replied  Bleecker  Satterthwaite  dryly. 
"  If  it  had  forbidden  the  first  and  permitted  the  last 
I  dare  say  he'd  have  been  just  as  much  tempted  to 
break  it.  There  is  one  glory  of  claret,  another  of 
champagne,  and  another  of  brandy-and-soda,"  he 


OLIVIA  DEL  A  PLAINS.  397 

added.      "  We   must   only   hope   that    the    boy   will 
in  time  learn  how   to  drink,  as  I  did." 

And  meanwhile,  as  in  thousands  of  similar  cases,  it 
was  an  affair  of  the  merest  chance  whether  or  not 
"the  boy  "  drank  himself  into  his  grave  before  he  had 
reached  five-and-thirty.  Every  gentle  yet  subtle  re- 
strictive educational  force  had  been  denied  him ;  all 
his  early  training  had  been  a  haphazard  flinging  away 
of  salaries  upon  modish  but  incompetent  masters ;  he 
had  been  "  crammed  "  in  order  to  enter  college,  and 
had  pursued  his  studies  there  with  the  audacious  aid 
of  "  ponies,"  just  escaping  graduation  at  the  foot  of 
his  class.  The  laurels  of  scholarship  ;  the  honor  of 
the  intellectual  life  ;  the  fine,  sweet  wage  that  after 
years  of  toil  is  due  a  faithful  political  servant ;  even 
the  rectitude  and  probity  crowning  a  long  and  useful 
commercial  career  —  these  gains  he  had  not  been 
taught,  in  plain  black-and-white,  to  despise,  but  he 
had  never  been  taught  to  respect  either  the  qualities 
that  could  win  them  or  the  prizes  themselves  when  at- 
tained. Fashion ;  pretension ;  cultivation  so  culti- 
vated that  it  had  become  vulgarity  ;  the  un-American 
malady  of  caste  that  has  crept  into-  Americanism 
and  may  one  day  leave  it  a  mass  of  mere  democratic 
wreckage ;  Anglomania  —  which  means  the  servile 
licking  of  England's  hand,  not  the  brotherly  grasping 
of  it  —  these,  and  a  hundred  other  items  of  perverse  in- 
struction, had  formed  a  part  of  his  practical  daily  tui- 
tion, while  above  the  whole  noxious  collection  of  pre- 
cepts, one  fixed  and  deep-founded  article  of  faith 
towrered  proudly  paramount  —  the  worship  of  money 
as  the  be-all  and  end-all  of  earthly  precedence,  valua- 
tion and  prestige. 


398  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"I  suppose  you  have  no  ...  er  ...  expectation 
that  he  will  ever  be  much  better?"  said  Mrs.  Satter- 
thwaite  to  Olivia,  during  this  visit  of  hers  with  Emme- 
line.  "I  mean,  he'll  continue  an  invalid,  even  if  he 
doesn't  ...  er  ...  die?" 

"That  is  about  what  the  doctors  now  appear  to 
think,"  said  Olivia.  "But  he  may  become  so  little  of 
an  invalid  as  to  dispense  with  attendance,  to  go  out 
alone,  and  all  that." 

"How  perfectly  horrible,"  said  Ernmeline,  "to  have 
him  not  get  any  better  and  yet  not  .  .  ."  She  paused, 
but  by  no  means  embarrassedly,  leaving  her  meaning 
to  be  understood,  as  she  was  wholly  confident  it 
would  be. 

"Oh,  perfectly  agonizing,"  struck  in  her  mother. 
"  His  ...  er  ...  death  would  be  far  preferable, 
of  course."  And  then  its  hardest  note  got  into  this 
lady's  voice  as  she  looked  about  the  room  and  pro- 
ceeded :  "  Especially,  my  dear  Olivia,  when  he  leaves 
you  so  comfortable." 

"He  hasn't  left  me  yet,"  answered  Olivia.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  world  whom  she  would  have 
answered  in  just  that  curt  way  except  Augusta  Sat- 
terthwaite,  the  woman  whom  she  knew  to  have 
schemed,  not  long  ago,  against  her  maiden  content, 
as  also  against  her  maiden  integrity  of  principle.  Her 
bluntness  now  resembled  that  which  some  accomplice 
in  a  crime  might  have  used  at  an  after  period  to  him 
who  had  shared  his  guilt.  Even  Emmeline,  sitting 
broad-shouldered,  high-colored  and  robustly  handsome 
at  her  mother's  side,  looked  somewhat  astonished. 
Then  the  girl  gave  a  laugh  of  cold  amusement,  as 
she  said  : 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  399 

"Well,  Cousin  Olivia,  you  don't  speak  as  though 
you  were  to  be  exactly  shattered  by  such  a  bereave- 
ment." 

"  Shattered  ? "  said  Mrs.  Satterthwaite,  looking  at 
her  daughter.  "  "What  an  odd  word  to  use,  Era !  I 
fancy  that  if  Olivia  is,  she'll  manage  to  collect  her 
fragments  and  re-exist  with  them."  Then,  turning  to 
Olivia :  "  Shall  you  not,  my  dear  ?  "  .  .  . 

It  was  not  very  long  after  this  that  young  Aspinwall 
Satterthwaite  presented  himself  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Olivia.  Deplorable  as  she  thought  him  in  many 
respects,  he  was  nevertheless  her  cousin,  and  he  was 
making  an  evident  call  of  condolence :  so  she  saw 
him.  But  scarcely  had  Aspinwall  begun  to  talk,  in 
his  blended  strain  of  pomposity  and  fatigue,  when  a 
card  was  handed  to  Olivia  bearing  the  name  of  Chi- 
chester  Auchincloss.  "  Que  faire  ?  "  she  questioned 
of  herself,  and  then  promptly  decided.  They  were 
both  equally  related  to  her  by  blood,  arch  foes  sworn 
though  she  knew  them  to  be.  Their  detestation  of 
each  other  might  prove  diverting  under  the  circum- 
stances. She  briefly  instructed  the  servant  who  had 
brought  in  the  card,  and  presently  either  of  the  two 
young  men  was  producing  a  bomb-shell  effect  upon 
the  other.  They  shook  hands,  and  then  surveyed 
each  other  with  a  mutual  scorn,  veiled  under  what 
was  at  least  the  similitude  of  politeness. 

"The  old  gentleman  's  no  better,  then,  Olivia,"  in- 
quired Aspinwall,  playing  with  a  stick  that  he  carried, 
superbly  mounted  in  silver. 

"  No,"  Olivia  said. 

"Does  Aspinwall  allude  to  your  hitsban d  ? "  asked 
Chichester. 


400  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"I  imagine  he  does," .replied  Olivia.  "Don't  yon, 
Aspinwall  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Aspinwall.  He  half  turned,  and 
scanned  Chichester  with  the  corner  of  each  eye ;  his 
steep  collar  would  not  permit  much  greater  laxity  of 
movement,  unless  he  shifted  his  entire  position.  Chi- 
chester, clad  in  the  darkest  and  most  simple  garb, 
offered  the  sharpest  contrast  to  his  cousin,  whose 
gloves  were  bright  yellow,  whose  hat  was  of  cinna- 
mon-brown, whose  necktie  was  of  sky-blue  satin,  whose 
waistcoat  was  blue  with  a  kind  of  yellowish  sprig  in  it, 
and  whose  trousers  were  of  a  flaring  check  pattern, 
red,  black,  white,  and  perhaps  a  few  more  colors 
beside. 

"What's  the  matter  with  'old  gentleman'?"  said 
Aspinwall.  "  Don't  you  like  it?" 

"No,"  emphatically  answered  his  cousin.  "Used 
in  reference  to  Olivia's  husband  it  savors  painfully  of 
slang.  It  is  evidently  employed  in  the  same  spirit  as 
the  'old  gentleman'  which  very  many  young  men 
apply  with  such  dreadful  taste  to  their  own  fathers." 

Aspinwall  laughed  rather  coarsely,  and  then  looked 
at  Olivia  with  a  glance  that  expressed  unfathomable 
contempt  of  his  kinsman.  But  Olivia  pretended  not 
to  see  the  glance. 

"  I  always  call  my  dad  '  old  gentleman,' "  said  As- 
pinwall, in  a  provocative  and  highly  satirical  voice ; 
"that  is,  when  I  don't  call  him  'dad.'  Sorry  you 
think  it  such  bad  form." 

"Aspinwall,"  exclaimed  Chichester,  "you  know  we 
seldom  do  agree."  This  was  meant  to  silence  Aspin- 
wall. "  Pray  tell  me  something  of  Mr.  Delaplaine's 
case,"  the  young  gentleman  continued,  leaning  toward 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  401 

Olivia  and  bending  upon  her  his  very  closest  atten- 
tion ;  "  I've  read  a  little  upon  neurological  subjects 
myself,  and  —  " 

"  Jiminy !  "  scoffed  Aspinwall.  He  put  up  one 
yellow-gloved  hand  and  hollowed  it  behind  his  ear. 
"  Let's  hear  that  big  word  again,"  he  cried.  "  Where 

O  O  * 

did  you  get  it  from,  Chichy?" 

Chichester  coughed  a  little,  and  threw  back  his  head 
a  little,  and  crossed  his  own  dark-gloved  hands  in  his 
lap,  with  a  piqued,  snappish  manner  which  his  sister 
Madeleine  sometimes  rather  tellingly  adopted,  but 
which  with  him  had  the  effect  of  an  almost  old-maidish 
effeminacy. 

"I  got  that  word,  Aspinwall,"  he  replied,  "from  a 
book  you've  not  seen  much  more  than  the  outside  of. 
I  mean  —  the  dictionary."  Then  he  laughed  titter- 
ingly  and  looked  at  his  hostess.  "  He's  probably  as 
wise  now  as  he  was  before ;  don't  you  think  so, 
Olivia?"  But  Olivia  merely  smiled  in  a  neutral  way. 
She  had  no  intention  of  arraying  herself  on  the  side  of 
either  Montague  or  Capulet. 

Chichester  at  once  proceeded,  speaking  to  Olivia  as 
though  he  were  so  oblivious  of  Aspinwall's  presence 
that  he  had  no  longer  the  faintest  remembrance  of  it ; 
"I  should  not  have  used  the  word  'neurological'  with 
reference  to  your  husband's  case.  It  is  one  of  apo- 
plexy, as  I  understand.  Now,  unless  past  inquiry  into 
this  subject  quite  escapes  me,  cerebral  hemorrhage 
may  be  divided  into  four  separate  kinds." 

"  Good  Lord  ! "  ejaculated  Aspinwall,  under  his 
breath,  falling  back  into  his  chair.  "What  are  we 
going  to  have  next?" 

But    Chichester,   with    magnificent   self-possession, 


402  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

pursued  his  monologue,  keeping  liis  gaze  fixed,  all  the 
while,  upon  Olivia's  courteously  disposed  visage.  "  The 
first  on  the  list  is  the  case  in  which  two  or  three  or  more 
bleedings  rapidly  succeed  one  another.  The  second  is 
where  death  occurs  inside  twenty-four  hours,  and 
where  the  temperature  falls  at  first,  though  it  after- 
ward greatly  increases.  The  third  is  where  illness 
terminates  in  a  few  days  after  the  attack;  and  here 
the  temperature  diminishes,  but  is  followed  by  a  sta- 
tionary period  in  which,  after  its  physiological  stand- 
ard has  been  regained,  the  body  of  the  patient  is 
beset  by  oscillations  above  and  below  this  point.  And 
the  fourth  is  that  stage  in  which  the  patient  recovers. 
There  is  then  —  " 

"Houpla!"  exulted  Aspinwall,  with  his  head  ab- 
surdly far  back  on  the  cushion  of  the  lounge  he 
occupied,  and  a  cigarette  between  the  thumb  and 
finger  of  his  right  hand.  "May  I  smoke,  Cousin 
Olivia?  Yes,  I  know  you'll  let  me.  I  couldn't  stand 
this  medical  lecture  if  you  didn't." 

"  No,  Aspy,"  said  Olivia.  "  You  carCt  smoke  here, 
and  you  ought  not  to  think  of  doing  so." 

"  There  is,  fourthly,"  continued  Chichester,  still 
haughtily  ignoring  his  male  cousin,  "that  happy  case 
in  which  they  say  the  patient  stands  an  excellent 
chance  of  recovery.  The  temperature  then  falls,  as  in 
other  serious  attacks,  but  it  is  followed  by  a  temporary 
rise,  and  later  the  normal  standard  so  clearly  asserts 
itself  that  —  " 

"  Oh,  look  here ! "  interrupted  Aspinwall,  pulling 
himself  up  from  his  semi-recumbent  position  and 
frowning  serio-oomically  upon  the  speaker.  "We  don't 
want  to  know  about  the  chances  of  the  old  chap  getting 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  403 

well.  We'd  rather  hear  your  highfalutin  remarks  on 
the  subject  of  his  quietly  doing  the  other  thing.  .  .  . 
Eh,  Olivia?" 

As  the  last  word  left  Aspinwall,  Olivia  turned  her 
eyes  on  him.  "  You  are  impertinent  to  me,"  she  said, 
"  and  inhuman  to  my  husband." 

Aspinwall  sprang  from  his  chair.  He  was  one  of 
the  young  New  York  gallants  who  pride  themselves 
upon  being  gentlemen,  without  the  dimmest  real  con- 
ception of  those  quieter  occasions  and  intervals  when 
high  breeding  should  make  itself  smoothly  and  accept- 
ably evident.  "  By  Jove ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  hope  I 
haven't  bored  you  the  least  in  the  world!  Save  I? 
Now,  do  tell  me  if  I  have,  and  I'll  get  right  down  on 
my  knees,  don't  you  know,  to  beg  your  pardon ! " 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  do  anything  so  humble,"  said 
Olivia,  smiling  amicably,  and  at  the  same  time  telling 
herself  how  all  indignation  must  be  thrown  away 
on  such  wearying  fatuity  as  this  cousin  of  hers 
represented!  "The  only  apology  I  shall  exact  from 
you,"  she  continued,  "  will  be  the  civil  treatment 
of  our  cousin  Chichester's  rather  learned  medical 
treatise." 

"  Oh,  he  got  it  all  from  some  book  before  he  came 
here.  Didn't  you,  Chi  ?  "  exclaimed  Aspinwall. 

Chichester  drew  himself  up.  "I  have  never  in  my 
life  before  been  called  '  Chi,'  "  he  said,  with  the  edges 
of  his  lips,  as  it  were,  "and  I  really  wish  you  would 
never  again,  Aspinwall,  address  me  by  such  an  un- 
pleasant diminutive." 

Aspinwall  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  toyed  with, 
the  cigarette  which  Olivia  had  forbidden  him  to  light. 
"All  right,"  he  replied,  and  at  the  same  time  assured 


404  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

himself  that  nature  had  never,  no,  never,  created  such 
a  thorough  ass  as  his  cousin. 

When  her  two  visitors  had  gone,  Olivia  went  up- 
stairs again  to  the  sick-room  of  her  husband.  He  was 
then  still  so  weak  both  in  mind  and  body  that  he 
could  scarcely  address  a  coherent  word  to  her. 

But  in  a  short  time  he  became  strong  enough  to 
deliver  himself  of  many  words,  and  often  excessively 
bitter  ones.  As  he  grew  convalescent  his  venomous 
remarks  increased,  each  day  adding  to  their  malig- 
nancy. Olivia  was  in  just  the  repentant  state  to 
endure  them  silently.  She  had  lost  all  her  old  rebel- 
lious impulse.  She  was  still  often  haunted  by  the 
idea  that  she  had  pushed  him  into  his  present  sickness, 
and  the  chief  comfort  she  obtained  with  regard  to  this 
question  of  her  culpability  was  secured  from  Mrs. 
Ottarson,  whose  friendship  and  loyalty  strengthened 
in  time  of  trouble. 

"  Let  him  talk,"  'Livia,"  asseverated  her  aunt. 
"You  know  jus'  w'at  he  says  that's  false  an'  jus'  w'at 
isn't.  Make  believe  you  don't  care.  He's  sick.  You've 
got  to  stand  it.  Goodness  me!  If  you  only  had  some 
o'  my  troubles!  Deary,  I'm  glad  'nough  you  haven't 
got  'em.  Mr.  Spillington  an'  his  wife  have  both  left 
me,  an'  there's  that  thirty-five  dollar  suit  of  'partmerits 
empty.  An'  w'y?  'Cause  Amelia  Sugby,  the  author- 
ess, wouldn't  stand  bein'  browbeat.  That  woman's 
full  o'  spunk.  I  s'pose  it  comes  from  scribblin'  those 
stories  that  curl  people's  hair.  An'  she  got,  oh  so 
cantankerous !  An'  I  guess  she  was  'bout  right,  after 
all.  He  jus'  laid  himself  out  one  evenin'  at  dinner. 
He  told  her  she  was  panderirf  in  her  writin's.  That's 
the  word  he  used,  though  I  kind  o'  forget  how  he  said 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  405 

she  was  panderin'.  But  she  didn't  like  the  word,  an' 
neither  did  I.  An'  she  says  to  me,  one  mornin' : 
*  Either  he  goes,  Mrs.  Ott'son,  or  else  I  go.  Now 
w'ich  is  it  to  be  ?'  '  Well,'  I  says,  'Li via,  '  fair 
play's  fair  play,  an'  I  won't  see  any  boarder  o'  mine 
unjustly  attackted.'  An'  then  it  came  out  that  he'd 
called  her  a  penny-a-liner  one  afternoon  when  I  wasn't 
round.  That  was  bad,  'specially  as  she  gets  a  sight 
more'n  a  penny  a  line  for  that  stuff  she  writes,  though 
I  do  think  it's  the  worst  trash  I  ever  tried  to  read.  So 
she  s.aid  she'd  quit  if  Spillington  didn't,  an'  she's  good 
pay,  an'  she's  lately  got  an  order  from  the  Weekly 
Evening  J^anip,  or  some  paper  like  that,  which'll  bring 
her  in  four  thousand  dollars.  Now,  Spillington  owed 
me  over  a  hundred  dollars,  an'  I  was  'fraid  to  tell  him 
he  must  go,  on  that  account.  Still,  I  asked  him  to 
'pologize  to  Mrs.  Sugby.  'Pologize!  I  wish  you'd 
seen  him  !  He  jus'  cleared  that  throat  o'  his  an'  began 
to  talk  so  you'd  almost  heard  him  in  'Leventh  Avenue. 
So  I  got  mad,  an'  I  says  'Go.'  Well,  he  went,  an' 
the  hundred  dollars  went  too.  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever 
see  a  cent  of  it,  an'  I  needed  it.  Still,  I  can  scrape 
along,  I  guess,  without  it." 

Olivia  drew  out  her  purse  and  pushed  it  into  her 
aunt's  hand.  "Here  are  two  hundred  dollars,  Aunt 
Thyrza,"  she  said.  "I've  no  earthly  use  for  the 
money.  I've  been  simply  carrying  it  about  with  me 
for  an  age.  There,  now,  kiss  me  and  take  it.  Don't 
say  a  word.  You  know  how  I  love  you.  And 
remember  all  you  did  for  me  in  those  days  when  poor 
papa  was  dying !  " 

Toward  the  end  of  June,  Delaplaine  showed  marked 
signs  of  recovery.  The  physicians  recommended  a 


406  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

change  of  air.  Greenacre  was  waiting,  and  a  body- 
guard of  servants  also  was  waiting  to  conduct  him 
thither.  Olivia  offered  no  objection  whatever.  She 
asked  herself  whether  Jasper  Massereene  would  hear 
of  their  departure  or  no.  Yes,  she  concluded,  since 
it  was  sure  to  transpire  in  the  newspapers.  Of  late 
the  dark,  composed,  virile  face  of  Massereene  had 
repeatedly  shone  upon  her  in  her  dreams.  She  loved 
him,  and  fully  realized  that  she  loved  him.  But  her 
soul  was  so  unstained,  so  helped  by  a  faith  in  a  God 
of  immeasurable  goodness,  so  convinced  that  this  God 
would  befriend  her  through  all  possible  trials,  that  she 
found  unspeakable  comfort  in  prayer  and  in  medita- 
tions no  less  holy.  Her  life  became  more  and  more 
penetrated  with  the  most  earnest  belief.  She  reviewed 
her  past  temptations,  ahd  remembered  them  unceas* 
ingly  in  her  prayers.  She  prayed  not  only  for  her- 
self but  for  Massereene.  After  they  had  arrived  at 
Greenacre  she  devoted  herself  to  Delaplaine  with  all 
the  nursing  arts  that  it  lay  in  her  power  to  exhibit. 
He  incessantly  made  her  the  butt  of  his  bitter  wit,  his 
torturing  satire.  As  his  health  augmented,  his  cruelty 
kept  pace  with  it.  He  referred  to  Massereene  both 
openly  and  by  the  most  hateful  innuendo.  But  no 
matter  what  sinister  things  he  said,  Olivia  maintained 
her  post  unflinchingly  at  his  side. 

His  cynicism  revealed  new  depths  that  she  had  not 
dreamed  of  before.  One  day,  while  she  accompanied 
him  in  a  walk  about  the  grounds  (lie  moving  with  the 
paralytic  step  that  plainly  betrayed  his  wretched  dis- 
ease), she  read  to  him  a  sad  note  from  a  friend  in 
town  who  had  recently  lost  a  young  child. 

"Bah!"   he   said.      "How  much  absurd  sentiment 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  407 

is  poured  upon  the  question  of  parental  affection ! 
What,  after  all,  is  a  mother's  or  a  father's  love  except 
the  most  utter  selfishness  ?  And  the  children  them- 
selves —  what  is  really  lovable  about  them  ?  You 
can  always  buy  a  child's  affection  with  a  few  sweets. 
I  have  often  thought  that  all  the  badness  of  humanity 
is  to  be  found  in  the  undeveloped  male  or  female 
biped.  Where  can  you  see  more  detestable  traits  of 
bullying  coarseness  than  are  to  be  met  with  in  a  boy  ? 
I  have  always  abominated  boys.  They  are  like  young 
Neros  and  Caligulas.  They  delight  in  the  meanest 
and  wickedest  deeds.  Fortunately  for  the  race,  they 
unlearn  some  of  these  by  the  time  they  have  become 
men.  Among  the  numerous  inanities  for  which  ro- 
mance is  responsible,  a  glorification  of  childhood  and 
children  stands  foremost.  Such  writers  as  Victor  Hugo 
(whom,  by  the  way,  I  have  for  years  believed  to  be  a 
lunatic)  do  much  toward  popularizing  such  rubbish 
as  that  children  are  angelic.  Satanic  would  be  a  far 
more  suitable  term  for  lots  of  them." 

He  appeared  to  understand  the  new  power  which 
he  had  gained  over  his  wife.  It  was  evident  to  his 
shrewd  mind  that  she  had  become  possessed  with  the 
remorseful  idea  of  having  caused  his  perilous  illness. 
He  had  no  intention  of  altering  the  will  which  he  had 
made  on  recovery  to  health  after  his  singular  mar- 
riage, and  in  which  he  had  left  Olivia  mistress  of  his 
entire  large  property.  Nevertheless,  he  delighted  in 
having  his  lawyers  visit  him  at  Greenacre,  and  in 
remaining  closeted  with  them  for  an  hour  or  two 
at  a  time.  Afterward  he  would  devour  his  wife  with 
a  prolonged  stare  behind  his  glittering  glasses,  and 
say  at  length,  with  a  little  malicious  writhing  of  his 


408  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

pale  lips,  while  he  fumbled  nervelessly  among  the 
documents  that  covered  his  desk: 

"  It's  a  great  bother,  this  re-arrangement  of  one's 
money  affairs  —  a  great  bother.  Still,  there's  no  tell- 
ing just  when  I  may  pop  off  now,  and  if  I  do  I  shan't 
be  fool  enough  to  have  all  my  money  fill  another 
man's  pockets  —  not  I !  " 

Olivia's  face  would  flush  at  times  like  these,  and 
she  would  gnaw  her  lips  in  agony  of  spirit.  But  not 
a  word  of  retort  left  her.  As  for  her  husband's 
money,  there  were  moments,  even  hours,  nowadays, 
when  she  longed  that  he  would  bequeath  her  nothing. 
She  wrote  as  much  in  a  letter  to  her  Aunt  Thyrzn, 
wherein  she  poured  out  her  soul,  telling  of  the  exqui- 
site pain  he  was  inflicting  upon  her.  "  His  allusions 
to  Mr.  Massereene,"  she  wrote,  "sting  me  more  than 
all  others ;  for  that  name  now  points,  as  it  were,  to 
the  very  high-tide  mark  of  his  tyranny  and  my  own 
complete  innocence." 

Meanwhile  he  exulted  over  the  thought  that  he  was 
possibly  filling  her  with  the  sharpest  alarm  regarding 
those  lawyers  and  their  mysterious  departures  and 
appearances.  In  reality  some  few  changes  of  invest- 
ment were  all  that  were  meant  by  the  latter ;  but  he 
constantly  would  inquire  of  both  gentlemen,  with  an 
expression  and  a  tone  which  indicated  sharp  avidity 
for  the  exact  truth :  "  Did  Mrs.  Delaplaine  say  a 
word,  when  you  met  her  down-stairs,  this  morning, 
about  why  you  had  run  up  from  town !  "  Or  again  : 
"  My  wife,  by  the  way  .  .  .  has  she  asked  you  at  any 
time  what  was  the  object  of  your  coming  up  here  from 
the  city?  Now  think,  please."  .  .  .  And  he  would  put 
one  of  his  tremulous  hands  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  409 

gentleman  addressed.  "  I  beg  that  you  will  try  accu- 
rately to  recollect.  I  have  an  especial  motive  in 
presenting  to  you  this  question."  But  neither  of  the 
lawyers  had  the  slightest  gratifying  information  to 
impart.  Olivia  had  made  no  inquiries  of  them ;  and 
though  quite  unconscious  that  her  reticence  had  the 
most  irritant  effect  upon  Delaplaine,  she  was  none 
the  less  punishing  him  through  it  with  about  as  much 
stringency  as  if  she  had  employed  some  skilfully 
deliberate  method. 

"  You  appear  to  be  losing  your  looks,"  he  said  one 
day,  in  his  inhuman  sort  of  mutter,  to  which  she  had 
grown  so  forlornly  accustomed.  "  Are  you  not  well  ?" 

"I  am  not  precisely  ill,"  she  answered,  "though  I 
have  felt  better." 

"  Ah,  I  see.  Greenacre  is  boring  you.  You  had 
expected  Newport  this  summer,  with  a  pleasant  touch 
of  Lenox  in  the  autumn.  Long  drives  on  Ocean 
Avenue,  long  rambles  over  the  hazy  Berkshire  hills, 
with"  ....  He  paused,  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
watching  her  face,  to  see  whether  the  color  mounted 
to  it  or  no.  "  Why  don't  you  ask  Massereene  up 
here?  "  he  presently  said,  in  a  darting,  stabbing  way. 

She  bent  her  eyes  a  little  closer  on  the  book  that 
she  was  reading.  "I  should  not  know  where  to  find 
him,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  are  you  sure  of  that?"  he  asked,  with  a  mock- 
ing insolence  of  distrust  that  she  had  long  ago  become 
more  used  to  than  she  herself  realized. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  Perfectly  sure." 

He  remained  silent  for  quite  a  little  interval.  They 
had  been  sitting  on  the  piazza.  It  was  a  day  full  of 
summer's  brio-htest  and  most  dulcet  fascinations.  The 


410  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

sky  had  not  a  cloud  in  it,  and  the  south  wind  was 
pulsing  incessantly  among  the  leaves,  making  their 
vibrant  greenery  sing  like  hundreds  of  voices  heard 
in  a  dream. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  trifle  dull  here,"  said  Delaplaine, 
breaking  the  silence.  "  When  Adrian  comes  up  you 
may  find  it  less  so." 

"Adrian?"  echoed  Olivia,  laying  down  her  book. 
"  Have  you  decided  to  ask  him  here  ?  " 

"Yes.  But  not  as  a  guest.  I  must  have  a  secre- 
tary, now  that  I've  begun  really  to  interest  myself 
again  in  the  conduct  of  my  business  affairs." 

"The  doctors  in  New  York  said  that  you  should 
not  touch  business  affairs  for  at  least  six  months 
longer,"  Olivia  said.  She  thought  it  her  duty  to 
remind  him  -of  this  injunction,  and  did  so. 

He  nodded,  and  gave  that  dry  laugh  of  his,  which 
had  made  Olivia  feel,  while  in  a  fanciful  mood  of 
criticism,  the  other  day,  that  there  were  withered 
laughs,  just  as  there  were  withered  leaves. 

"  How  enchanting  of  you  to  take  so  much  care  of 
me ! "  he  answered.  "  One  would  imagine  that  you 
were  really  anxious  that  I  should  get  well ! " 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  411 


XXII. 

OLIVIA  was  charmed  by  the  plan  of  having  Adrian 
at  Green  acre.  But  on  meeting  him  she  was  instantly 
struck  with  surprise,  and  of  by  no  means  the  most 
agreeable  nature.  The  sweetness,  the  pensiveness,  the 
winsome  femininity  had  all  gone  from  Adrian.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  a  few  months  could  have  so 
radically  altered  any  one's  personality.  His  brown 
eyes  had  hardened  and  brightened  into  a  colder, 
more  crystalline  lustre.  He  carried  his  fine  figure 
with  an  assertiveness  that  made  it  almost  look  mar- 
tial. He  had  never  lacked  suavity  and  ease  of  man- 
ner ;  but  a  virile  element  was  blended  with  his  grace 
that  gave  it  the  most  unexpected  tinge  of  worldly- 
wise  gallantry.  Olivia  found  herself  greatly  inter- 
ested in  the  lad's  development,  if  it  were  worthy  of 
so  large  a  name;  after  watching  it  a  little  she  had 
a  sense  that  perhaps  it  was  worthy  of  being  called 
only  a  pathetic  effacement.  To  her  husband's  eyes 
there  had  been  no  metamorphosis  at  all,  or  else  one 
which  he  had  already  observed.  He  showed  perfect 
indifference,  now,  to  all  interviews  between  Adrian 
and  his  wife.  He  treated  his  secretary  with  a  civil 
enough  bearing,  and  made  no  attempt  whatever  to 
interfere  with  Adrian's  hours  of  leisure.  These  were 
not  few.  Olivia  no  longer  rode,  and  drove  only  in 
the  company  of  her  husband  when  he  expressed  a 


412  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

desire  that  she  should  do  so.  She  soon  found  herself 
wondering  at  the  perfectly  polite  and  yet  marked 
repression  in  Adrian's  manner  toward  herself.  She 
had  never  had  any  but  the  most  cordial  feelings  of 
friendship  for  him,  and  his  coolness,  however  deco- 
rously he  chose  to  mask  it,  roused  in  her  a  natural 
pique.  It  was  all  very  well  to  make  allowances  for  a 
swiftly  disclosed  maturity  in  Adrian,  but  this  cere- 
monious waiving  away  on  his  part  of  their  once  frank 
and  easy  intimacy  must  be  accounted  for  by  other 
reasons.  What  were  these  reasons  ?  Olivia  was  too 
generous  to  dream  of  enforcing  an  explanation  by  any 
such  magisterial  means  as  those  to  which  her  semi- 
proprietorship  at  Greenacre  would  have  entitled  her. 
She  resolved  to  break  the  ice  with  a  very  sharp  blow 
as  soon  as  occasion  served ;  and  it  did  serve  within  a 
few  days  after  Adrian's  arrival. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Luncheon 
was  just  over.  Delaplaine  had  gone  upstairs  to  take 
his  daily  sleep  of  at  least  two  hours'  duration.  Olivia 
had  passed  forth  on  the  broad-sweeping  piazza  that 
lay  just  outside  the  low  windows  of  the  dining-room. 
She  had  been  asking  Adrian  whether  or  no  he  thought 
that  Mr.  Delaplaine's  health  was  being  retarded  by 
his  dictation  of  financial  correspondence  during  the 
morning.  Adrian  had  answered  negatively,  add- 
ing: 

"  The  occupation  is,  I  think,  more  of  an  amusement 
than  a  task.  He  merely  gives  me  the  roughest  outline 
of  what  he  wishes  said,  and  I  frame  it  in  the  kind  of 
epistolary  English  that  I  know  he  prefers." 

"  And  with  great  skill,  I  am  sure,"  said  Olivia,  smil- 
ing graciously  if  but  transiently. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  413 

"  No ;  it  is  nothing  except  the  result  of  long  habit. 
I've  become  quite  used  to  the  kind  of  work  he  de- 
sires." 

"  And  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  remain  there 
at  the  Bank  for  a  long  time  yet  ?  " 

Olivia  artfully  put  this  question  just  as  she  was 
stepping  across  the  threshold  of  one  of  the  windows. 
He  was  obliged  to  follow  her  out  upon  the  piazza,  or 
else  to  appear  unpermissibly  rude.  She  was  almost 
certain  that  he  would  not  have  quitted  the  dining- 
room  with  her  unless  that  much  urbanity  had  become 
obligatory.  But  he  bowed,  as  it  was,  to  the  necessity 
of  acquiescence.  There  were  several  wicker-work  chairs 
scattered  about,  and  Olivia  sank  into  one  of  them.  He 
stood  at  her  side,  with  his  hands  meeting  behind  him, 
a  figure  full  of  the  most  happy  symmetries  and  crowned 
by  a  face  and  head  which  it  struck  her  that  some  o£ 
the  famed  marbles  have  not  surpassed. 

"  I  expect  to  continue  at  the  Bank,"  he  answered, 
"If  Mr.  Delaplaine  will  not  object  to  my  doing  so; 
and  I  suppose  he  will  not." 

"  But  if  anything  should  happen  to  Mr.  Delaplaine  ?  " 
questioned  Olivia,  looking  up  at  him  from  where  she 
was  now  seated. 

"  Then  there  would  still  remain  two  other  partners, 
as  you  doubtless  know.  I  am  on  good  terms  with 
both  of  them." 

"  You  should  be  a  partner  there  some  day  yourself, 
Adrian,"  she  said  to  him  very  sweetly.  "  I  wish  it 
with  all  my  heart.  I  think  you  deserve  it." 

He  colored,  bit  his  lip,  and  half  turned  away.  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  caught  his  coat-sleeve, 
detainingly,  between  thumb  and  finger,  pulling  at  it 


414  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

with  a  hearty  good  will,  as  if  she  were  well  in  earnest 
on  the  subject  of  his  not  leaving  her  just  yet. 

As  if  suddenly  conscience-stricken,  he  veered  round 
and  faced  her.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Delaplaine,"  he  exclaimed 
Boftly,  "how  good  of  you!  But  you  were  always 
good  to  me." 

Olivia  burst  out  laughing.  "  It's  pleasant  to  receive 
that  bit  of  intelligence  from  you,  Mr.  Etherege,  at  a 
time  when  I  have  been  wondering  what  precise  bee 
you've  lately  allowed  to  buzz  in  that  bonnet  of  yours. 
Once  or  twice  I've  been  on  the  verge  of  asking  you  if 
you  would  not,  de  bonne  grace  tell  me  what  I  had  pos- 
sibly done  to  offend  you  —  to  put  you  on  your 'high 
horse,'  in  this  perplexing  manner.  But  no ;  I  con- 
cluded that  I'd  wait  and  dexterously  drop  my  hand- 
kerchief so  that  you'd  have  to  pick  it  up,  with  a  grand 
Louis  Quatorze  bow ;  and  then,  while  receiving  it,  I'd 
inform  you  how  beautiful  your  new  manners  were, 
and  ask  you  whether  you'd  purchased  them  expressly 
to  wear  up  here  at  Green  acre." 

Adrian  dropped  into  a  chair  at  her  side.  "That 
would  have  been  cruel  —  and  consequently  very  unlike 
yourself." 

"I  can  be  terribly  cruel  when  I  believe  people 
deserve  it,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head,  pointing  upward.  "  There  is 
somebody  in  this  house  from  whom  I  am  beginning  to 
see  that  you  are  bearing  cruelties  angelically." 

She  gave  a  little  start.  '-Oh,  say  philosophically," 
she  replied  coloring.  "  But  never  mind  him,  Adrian. 
Why  have  you  treated  me  like  so  thorough  a 
stranger?" 

He  had  drooped  his  eyes  while  she  intently  watched 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  415 

him.  "  I  almost  dreaded  to  meet  you  again."  And 
now  he  turned  upon  her  the  full,  mild  brown  splendors 
of  his  eyes,  and  she  saw  that  they  were  moist  if  not 
really  tearful.  "I  —  I  knew  it  was  best  that  I  should 
not  come  here.  And  yet  something  drew  me  ;  I  may 
say  dragged  me!  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
would  not  come  —  that  I  would  invent  some  excuse  — 
that  even  if  it  enraged  him,  even  if  he  discharged  me 
angrily  because  of  it,  I  would  still  avoid  coming.  But 
at  the  last  moment  I  weakly  yielded.  I  —  " 

He  impetuously  caught  her  hand  in  both  his  own, 
and  was  lifting  it  to  his  lips,  when  she  tore  it  away 
and  rose  from  her  chair.  She  had  become  pale,  and 
her  eyes  were  shining ;  but  otherwise  there  was  not 
the  least  sign  of  agitation  in  her  manner. 

"  You  are  so  irritating  in  your  folly,"  she  murmured. 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  will  permit  you  to  stay  here  now  ?" 
A  little  scornful  laugh  ran  rippling  through  her  next 
sentence.  "  I  am  not  the  least  anxious  to  wound  your 
feelings  —  of  which  you  have  just  given  me  so  aston- 
ishing, so  regrettable  an  evidence.  But  I  have  now 
only  this  to  tell  you :  If,  by  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
you  have  not  found  some  excuse  for  leaving  Greenacre, 
I  must  inform  Mr.  Delaplaine  that  you  have  been 
guilty  of  a  very  great  discourtesy  to  me.  .  .  .  Do  you 
understand?"  she  went  on  with  much  of  sad  appeal 
in  her  eyes  and  lips,  while  she  put  out  both  hands 
toward  him,  anxiously,  compassionately,  to  withdraw 
them  again  in  an  instant.  "  I  have  understood  you. 
...  I  am  very,  very  sorry.  But  it  cannot  be  arranged 
otherwise." 

Then  she  hurried  indoors,  without  his  making  the 
least  effort  to  detain  her,  and  reached  her  own  room. 


416  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

There  she  sat  for  a  long  time,  staring  at  the  huge  silver 
serpent  of  the  Hudson  beyond,  and  telling  herself  that 
this  whole  affair  was  miserably  unfortunate.  In  her 
solitude,  broken  as  it  was  only  by  such  unpalatable 
companionship  as  that  of  her  husband,  she  had  felt  a 
soft  little  thrill  of  real  joy  to  learn  that  she  would 
soon  be  shaking  hands  with  Adrian  Etherege.  She 
had  never  comprehended  until  then  how  sisterly  had 
been  her  regard  for  the  lad,  how  severe  was  her  an- 
noyance at  the  separation  Delaplaine  had  forced  upon 
them,  aiid  by  how  many  acts  of  helpful  friendship  she 
would  have  been  willing  to  prove  her  attachment. 
The  festivities  of  fashion,  crowding  upon  her  as  they 
had  done  with  new  demands  both  upon  consciousness 
and  memory,  had  never  made  her  forget  Adrian 
Etherege.  Not  even  Jasper  Massereene  had  made 
her  forget  him. 

Perhaps  it  was  Jasper  Massereene's  influence  upon 
her  now  —  the  recollection  of  his  unfailing  humanity, 
his  power  not  only  to  feel/br  but  with  suffering  fellow- 
creatures  —  that  gradually  changed  the  whole  current 
of  her  thought  and  intention. 

"  How  can  I  be  sure,"  she  mused,  "  that  I  have  not 
behaved  blamably  in  my  dealings  with  Adrian?  His 
nature  is  impressionable,  ardent ;  it  may  be  that  I 
(mentally  older  than  he  was,  if  not  so  in  years)  did  not 
use  toward  him  the  discretion  he  merited." 

When  they  next  met,  Olivia  said,  as  soon  as  oppor- 
tunity favored :  "  I  hope  you  are  willing  to  assist  me 
in  forgetting  what  passed  not  long  ago.  I  spoke  too 
hastily,  and  apologize.  You  also  spoke  hastily;  it 
may  be  that  you  will  consent  to  ask  my  pardon.  If 
you  do  I  will  readily  grant  it."  She  put  out  her  hand 
as  she  finished  speaking. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  417 

He  caught  it,  looked  at  her  steadily  first,  and  then 
lifted  it  to  his  lips.  But  she  had  studied  his  eyes  and 
let  him  do  so,  this  time. 

"I  behaved  myself  like  a  —  a  ruffian,"  he  faltered. 
"  How  few  good  women  there  are,  good  enough  to 
forgive  me ! "  .  .  . 

After  that  they  were  the  best  of  friends  again. 
And  yet  they  were  not  friends  in  the  same  way  as 
before.  She  had  learned  his  secret. 

Adrian's  company  formed  her  sole  social  pastime. 
"  There  are  a  few  people  about  us,"  she  said  to  him, 
during  one  of  their  talks,  "  who  have  shown  a  desire 
to  be  more  intimate  with  me  this  summer;"  and  she 
mentioned  the  names  of  several  neighboring  families. 
"But  I  have  pleaded  Mr.  Delaplaine's  illness  as  an 
excuse." 

"He  is  so  much  better,  however,"  said  Adrian. 

"  Yes.  But  nothing  restrains  him  from  those  bursts 
of  bitterness  and  of  personality — the  latter  always 
directed,  as  you  know,  at  myself.  He  prefers  we 
should  live  quietly,  and  I  think  it  is  fortunate  he  does. 
I  had  hoped  your  presence  might  have  some  effect ; 
but  he  pours  forth  his  streams  of  cynicism  just  as 
freely  as  before  you  came.  I  suppose  they  sometimes 
make  you  inwardly  shudder,  as  they  do  me." 

"I  bear  them  better,  much  better  than  I  did," 
replied  Adrian,  with  a  touch  of  mysticism  in  his  air. 

"How  is  that?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  do  not  see  why  not,"  he  returned,  with  sudden 
impetuosity.  "  In  those  other  days  when  you  and  he 
and  I  were  together  I  believed  him  — " 


418  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Well?"  questioned  Olivia,  as  the  young  man 
paused. 

"  I  believed  him  —  my  father." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  surprise. 

"And  now?" 

"I  know  to  the  contrary." 

"You  know?" 

"Yes." 

"He  has  told  you?" 

"No." 

"Who,  then?" 

"My  mother." 

"Your  mother?  Ah,  I  see.  And  you  asked  her  if 
such  a  thing  were  true  ?  " 

"No.  But  she  saw  how  I  hated  him,  and  how  my 
hate  grew.  The  suspicion  that  he  was  my  father  had 
entered  my  head  several  months  before  you  and  I  ever 
met.  It  made  me  hate  YOU,  at  first,  because  I  believed 
that  I  could  compel  him  to  right  by  marriage  the 
wrong  which  he  had  done  my  mother." 

"That  look  you  gave  me  —  that  look  of  positive 
savagery  —  on  the  day  I  became  his  wife,"  Olivia 
murmured.  "  I  understand  it  now." 

He  indistinctly  caught  her  words,  and  said  :  "  To 
what  look  do  you  refer?"  He  searched  her  face  with 
eagerness  while  he  thus  spoke. 

"Never  mind,"  Olivia  returned.  .  .  .  "And  your 
mother  has  told  you  .  .  .  ? " 

"  That  I  am  not  his  son.  It  has  lifted  a  great  load 
from  my  heart." 

"But  she  —  your  mother  —  how  was  it  that  she 
induced  him  to  aid  you  as  he  has  done?" 

"  She  would  not  tell  me  that.     Some  day  I  hope  to 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  419 

know.  But  my  mother  and  he  were  never  —  well, 
you  understand.  It  has  been  a  great  relief  to  me." 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  thought  Olivia.  "  I  don't  doubt  that 
his  mother  has  told  him  a  merciful  falsehood." 

She  soon  got  away  from  Adrian.  These  revelations 
had  affected  her  in  a  singular  way,  and  she  wanted  to 
be  alone  to  brood  on  them. 

What  she  had  heard  made  her  regard  her  husband 
with  a  fresh,  uncontrollable  antipathy.  .  .  .  That  night, 
at  dinner,  he  was  in  one  of  his  most  cheerless  and 
biting  moods.  He  appeared  in  the  dining-room  with 
a  card  which  he  had  just  lighted  on  in  the  hall. 

"General  and  Mrs.  Swartwout,"  he  read  from  the 
card.  "The  General  was  never  in  but  one  action 
during  his  life,  and  on  that  occasion  he  was  slightly 
wounded.  .  .  .  Where  ?  Some  people  said  it  was  in 
the  left  breast,  just  above  the  region  of  the  heart.  A 
faithful  friend  and  comrade  of  the  General's,  however, 
who  chanced  to  be  in  the  same  action  with  him,  used 
to  deny  this  statement.  He  said  that  there  was  no 
wound  in  the  General's  left  breast  at  all,  as  the  bullet 
had  stopped  before  getting  there.  '  What  stopped 
it?'  asked  some  one  innocently.  <  His  shoulder-blade,' 
replied  that  kind-hearted  friend."  .  .  .  Here  Dela- 
plaine  laughed  to  himself  in  a  smothered  chuckle,  as 
though  he  did  not  expect  either  Olivia  or  Adrian 
Etherege  to  join  him.  ..."  Ah,"  he  presently  went 
on,  beginning  to  sip  his  soup,  "  of  all  honorable  occu- 
pations there  is  none  to  which  society,  feather-headed 
society,  so  bows  down  as  the  profession  of  killing. 
The  moment  you  are  a  killer  extraordinary  of  your 
fellow-creatures,  like  a  general  or  a  colonel,  you  are 
more  or  less  worshipped.  The  clergy  is  simply  no« 


420  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

where  in  comparison.  There  have  been  more  monu- 
ments reared  to  the  men  who  have  killed  successfully 
than  to  all  the  painters,  sculptors,  philosophers  and 
reformers  combined.  You  see,  I  leave  out  poets,  not 
thinking  them  worthy  of  a  moment's  concern.  They're 
merely  melodious  liars ;  they'll  lie  prettily  on  anything, 
from  life,  death,  or  the  so-termed  human  soul,  to  a 
glove,  a  ribbon,  or  a  rosebud.  .  .  .  Well,  Olivia,  did 
you  see  the  General  and  his  wife  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Olivia ;  "  I  was  not  at  home." 

"  You  mean  ...  in  a  poetical  way." 

"  I  had  gone  for  a  little  walk." 

"Um-m-m.  And  to  gather  a  little  sunburn.  I 
wouldn't.  It's  hoiTibly  unbecoming." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Delaplaine  does  not  seem  in  the  least 
sunburned  to  me,  sir,"  said  Adrian. 

"  That's  because  a  young  stripling  like  you  thinks 
half  the  milk-maids  that  he  meets  are  goddesses." 

"  Well,"  said  Olivia,  laughing,  and  at  the  same  time 
hoping  to  turn  the  talk,  if  she  might,  into  pleasanter 
channels,  "  Pm  certainly  no  milk-maid." 

"You!"  scoffed  Delaplaine.  "I  should  say  not  — 
in  the  sense  of  pure-mindedness." 

Adrian  colored  and  started.  These  thrusts  had  for 
him  a  sacrilegious  atrocity.  He  looked  straight  at 
Mr.  Delaplaine,  and  spoke  with  an  accent  of  the  deep- 
est sincerity  and  a  sudden  sparkling  out  of  his  old 
youthful  demeanor : 

"I  should  say,  sir,  that  your  wife  had  as  much  pure- 
mindedness  as  any  woman  that  ever  lived." 

'"  Ho,  ho ! "  laughed  Delaplaine.  "  Much  you  know 
about  the  matter !  Take  care,  or  she'll  be  twisting 
you  round  her  finger  in  fine  style.  She's  craftier  than 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  421 

when  you  knew  her  last ;  she's  had  a  season  of  New 
York  deviltries  to  practise  on." 

"  In  most  of  which  you  were  my  companion,"  Olivia 
either  could  not  or  simply  did  not  resist  now  saying, 
although  she  had  but  lately  shot  Adrian  a  look  that 
enjoined  silence  upon  him. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  answered,  and  gave  his 
laugh  again. 

Olivia  had  trangressed  her  usual  rule  in  having  shown 
the  faintest  resentment  toward  her  husband.  She 
now  regretted  this  fact,  and  immediately  turned  to 
Adrian,  with  a  second  pitiful  attempt  to  alter  the 
conversational  current. 

"This  General  Swartwout,"  she  said,  "has  such  a 
pretty  daughter.  I  should  like,  some  time,  to  present 
you." 

But  Delaplaine  was  unpropitiable  to-night.  "  Why 
on  earth,"  he  asked,  "  would  you  pi-esent  Adrian ? 
She's  an  airy  girl,  with  a  great  idea  of  marrying  a 
bigger  swell  than  she  is  herself." 

"Oh,"  said  Olivia,  with  a  smile  at  Adrian,  "we  will 
not  mind  the  marrying  part,  will  we  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Adrian,  "I'm  not  at  all  ambi- 
tious to  marry." 

"  Still,"  struck  in  Delaplaine,  "  you'd  like  to  marry 
ambitiously ;  there's  a  difference." 

"There  is  no  difference  for  me,  sir,"  Adrian  re- 
plied. 

"Stuff!"  Delaplaine  said.  "Every  man  or  woman, 
unless  made  a  fool  of  by  the  mental  distemper  named 
love,  always  wants,  if  it  be  possible,  to  fly  the  matrimo- 
nial kite  high.  ...  I  have  very  rarely  seen  an  ex- 
tremely rich  man  who  did  not  marry  a  beautiful  wife. 


422  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

They  have  the  pick  of  the  market,  as  it  were;  any 
one  whom  they  choose  to  ask  is  delighted  to  accept." 

Adrian  shook  his  head.  "You  yourself  admit,  sir, 
that  the  mental  distemper  named  love,  exists  after 
all." 

"It  doesn't  stand  the  dimmest  chance  against 
money,  once  in  a  thousand  times.  Not  the  dim- 
mest. Let  the  young  capitalist  appear  on  the  scene 
and  Phyllis  will  begin  to  smirk  at  him  over  Corydon's 
very  shoulder.  And  presently  she  gets  up  and  waltzes 
toward  the  new-comer,  leaving  poor  Corydon  her 
crook,  perhaps,  for  consolation.  She  won't  need  it 
any  more  ;  she's  going  to  be  too  fine  a  lady." 

"  Corydon  ought  to  take  up  the  crook,"  laughed 
Adrian,  "  and  lay  it  over  the  millionaire's  back." 

"Much  good  if  he  did.  There'd  be  a  lawsuit,  and 
the  millionaire,  having  money  enough  to  supply  him- 
self with  the  highest  legal  intelligence  in  the  land, 
would  handsomely  win  the  day.  And  Phyllis  would 
be  sure  to  call  her  old  swain  a  horrid  rough  wretch 
and  to  declare  herself  so  glad  she  didn't  marry  him, 
while  she  gazed  down  at  the  glittering  engagement- 
ring  somebody  else  had  just  given  her." 

Adrian  again  shook  his  head,  but  this  time  with  a 
melancholy  emphasis.  "  I  hope,  sir,  the  world  isn't 
quite  so  black  as  you  paint  it ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  It's  a  good  deal  blacker,  in  many  cases." 

"  But  I'd  rather  not  —  at  my  age  —  think  it  so," 
cried  Adrian.  "I  want  to  think  that  it  holds  many 
good  women  and  noble  men." 

Delaplaine  pointed  across  the  table  at  his  wife.  As 
he  did  this,  a  light  thrill  shot  through  Olivia's  blood. 
What  new  insult  was  he  about  to  perpetrate  ?  Every 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  423 

week  his  outward  integument  of  gentlemanliness  ap- 
peared to  lose  a  layer  or  so  of  its  density.  He  was 
perpetually  sinking  lower  and  lower  toward  a  brutal- 
ity of  which  his  extreme  physical  weakness  alone  pre- 
vented Olivia  from  dreading  a  still  more  gross  deteri- 
oration. She  had  begun  to  tell  herself  that  there  was 
nothing  his  irritated  and  semi-diseased  brain  might 
not  prompt  him  to  say,  for  there  are  some  maladies 
which  intensify  and  reduplicate  the  worst  and  most 
prominent  faults  of  just  such  a  nature  as  his.  But 
the  chances  of  his  doing  her  any  bodily  harm  were 
slight  enough,  since  his  own  muscular  feebleness,  if 
no  other  cause,  would  have  prevented  this  crowning 
outrage. 

His  finger  still  pointed  at  her.  On  his  face  was  a 
smile  of  infernal  derision. 

"  Many  good  men  and  noble  women  ? "  he  said, 
with  a  mockery  that  to  Olivia  had  in  it  the  flickering 
of  a  snake's  forked  tongue.  "There  sits  one  of  the 
latter.  She's  a  noble  woman ;  I  suppose  you  think 
so  ;  eh,  Adrian  ?  " 

"I  do  !  "  exclaimed  Adrian,  with  a  nervous  break 
in  his  voice,  as  though  he  too  were  fearful  of  some 
insult  specially  violent. 

"  Well,  then,  she  married  me  on  what  she  believed 
was  my  death-bed,  and  just  for  my  money.  No  other 
reason.  She  thought  I  wouldn't  live  three  hours. 
There's  nobility  for  you.  Eh,  Adrian?" 

He  fell  back  into  his  chair,  laughing  shrilly,  while 
his  finger  still  pointed  at  his  wife. 

Olivia  shuddered  as  she  saw  the  butler  and  footman 
smile  and  turn  away.  She  rose  staggeringly  from  the 
table ;  she  was  pale  and  gasped  a  little  ;  every  instant 


42.4  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  might  swoon ;  the  room 
whirled  round  with  her ;  but  pricking  through  all 
other  sensations  with  an  intolerable  poignancy,  was 
her  exquisite  shame  ! 

The  next  instant  she  saw  Adrian  spring  toward  her 
husband  and  stand  over  him  with  lifted  arm  and  blaz- 
ing eyes. 

"  You  scoundrel !  "  Adrian  cried,  every  influence  of 
past  authority  swept  away  in  this  one  overwhelming 
moment  of  passionate  championship.  "It's  only  your 
weakness  that  keeps  me  from " 

"Adrian  !  "  Olivia  screamed.  "  No,  no  ! "  But  be- 
fore she  had  reached  his  side  the  young  man  had 
folded  his  arms  on  his  breast.  There  was  a  sneer 
on  his  lips  and  a  look  of  scathing  scorn  still  in  his 
beautiful  eyes. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said  to  Olivia.  "  I  shall  not 
touch  him." 

"  Puppy !  "  Delaplaine  hissed.  He  had  drawn  him- 
self so  far  back  into  his  chair  and  lie  was  so  blood- 
jessly  pale  that  he  looked  ten  years  older  than  his 
actual  age.  "Leave  my  house,  and  never  dare  to 
ask  a  dollar  of  me  again  ! "  he  went  on,  huskily. 

"I  will  leave  your  house  this  night,"  said  Adrian. 
"I  should  feel  degraded  by  every  hour  longer  that  I 
remained  there."  He  was  breathing  hard,  with  set 
teeth,  as  he  turned  toward  Olivia.  "  Good  bye,"  he 
muttered,  looking  into  her  eyes.  Then  he  strode  out 
of  the  room,  and  she  followed  him. 

"Adrian,"  she  pleaded,  stopping  him  in  the  hall, 
"do  not  go  to-night." 

"Yes  —  yes,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  train  I  can 
catch.  If  not,  I  can  sleep  in  the  village  till  morning." 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  425 

"But  you  must  make  up  with  him  —  you  must. 
Think :  what  will  become  of  you  if  you  are  suddenly 
discharged  from  the  bank?  What  will  become  of  your 
mother,  who,  as  you  have  told  me,  depends  upon  you 
for  support  ?  " 

Adrian  smiled.  "There  are  twenty  houses,  at  least, 
that  I  know  of,  willing  to  give  me  a  corresponding 
position  as  clerk.  Do  not  fear  on  that  account."  He 
watched  her  with  a  chivalrously  tender  look  growing 
in  his  gaze.  "  You  are  far  more  to  be  pitied  than  I 
am,  since  you  are  a  woman  and  must  live  on  compara- 
tively alone  with  him." 

Olivia  shuddered.-  Suddenly  she  put  both  hands  up 
to  her  face.  The  whirling  feeling  had  come  into  her 
head  again.  She  uncovered  her  face  and  reeled  toward 
Adrian,  who  caught  her.  "  My  God ! "  she  gasped. 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  dying.  I  —  I  hope  it  is  death  ! 
I—" 

And  then  a  night  put  its  blackness  into  her  brain. 
But  what  seemed  to  her  possible  death  was  only  the 
briefest  of  fainting-fits.  She  awoke  to  find  herself  on 
a  lounge  in  the  sitting-room,  with  one  of  the  woman- 
servants  bathing  her  temples.  As  soon  as  she  felt 
sufficiently  strong  and  collected  to  go  in  search  of 
Adrian,  she  found  that  he  had  left  Greenacre.  He 
had  gathered  only  a  few  articles  of  apparel  together, 
had  taken  these  with  him  in  a  portmanteau,  and  had 
informed  a  domestic  that  he  would  send  for  the 
others.  .  .  . 

Olivia  had  a  sense  of  absolute  loathing  now,  as  she 
prepared  once  more  to  enter  the  presence  of  her  hus- 
band. She  conquered  such  reluctance  all  the  more 
easily,  however,  on  recalling  her  new  and  positive 


426  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

determination.  She  meant  to  leave  on  the  morrow 
for  New  York  and  her  Aunt  Thyrza.  It  need  not  be 
a  permanent  absence  ;  she  would  be  willing  to  return 
if  certain  promises  were  afterward  given  her.  The 
self-accusative  feeling  had  not  yet  left  her.  She  could 
not  rid  herself  of  its  occasional  spell.  But  for  the 
confession  that  she  had  made  to  Jasper  Massereene, 
her  husband  would  perhaps  have  escaped  the  stroke 
to  which  a  great  deal  of  his  later  abuses  and  imposi- 
tions might  be  attributable.  In  truth  Olivia  now  bore 
herself  with  a  martyr-like  loveliness,  where  many  an- 
other woman  would  have  pursued  a  course  either  of 
lamentation  or  rebellion.  Yet  she  had  been  taxing 
too  severely  her  forces  both  of  endurance  and  resigna- 
tion. A  spiritual  fatigue  had  resulted  —  perhaps  she 
did  not  dream  how  cogent  a  one.  But  she  was  des- 
tined soon  to  learn,  and  in  a  way  which  it  would 
have  appalled  her  with  horror  could  she  have  soberly 
foreseen. 

Her  husband  had  by  this  time  gone,  as  she  supposed, 
to  his  library  upstairs.  But  on  entering  that  room 
Olivia  found  it  vacant.  She  next  tried  his  bedcham- 
ber, but  as  she  approached  the  latter  she  was  met  by 
Delaplaine's  valet. 

"I  do  not  think  Mr.  Delaplaine  is  at  all  well, 
ma'am,"  said  the  man. 

"  Is  he  lying  down  ?  "  asked  Olivia,  pointing  to  the 
apartment  which  the  man  had  just  quitted. 

"  Yes,  ma'arn.     He  says  he's  in  a  good  deal  of  pain." 

«  Pain  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am  ...  I  wasn't  with  him  when  he  had 
those  fits  of  internal  gout,  but  from  what  he  tells  me 
I'm  afraid  it's  another  attack." 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  427 

"Did  you  send  for  a  doctor?" 

"  I  haven't  yet,  ma'am.  Mr.  Delaplaine  said  'twas 
best  to  wait  and  see  if  the  pain  got  worse  .  .  ." 

Here  the  man  paused.  A  heavy  groan  sounded 
from  the  near  chamber. 

The  pain  was  already  worse,  and  a  doctor  was  imme- 
diately sent  for.  Lulled  through  many  months  into 
submission  and  quietude,  with  its  right  of  possession 
usurped,  as  one  might  have  believed,  by  another 
wholly  different  disorder,  the  man's  old  foe,  gout, 
had  suddenly  leaped  upon  him  and  begun  to  inflict 
its  keenest  pangs.  The  attack  was  a  terrible  one,  and 
Delaplaine  fainted  two  or  three  times  during  its  first 
most  agonizing  seizures.  By  about  twelve  o'clock  on 
the  following  day  his  regular  physician  arrived  from 
New  York.  He  remained  about  three  hours  at  Green- 
acre,  carefully  watching  the  patient.  "  There  is  noth- 
ing for  me  to  do,"  he  told  Olivia,  "  which  the  physi- 
cian whom  I  found  in  attendance  cannot  do  as  well. 
"We  have  consulted  together,  and  our  views  entirely 
agree.  This  sudden  access  of  hot  weather  is  certainly 
against  Mr.  Delaplaine.  He  has  rallied  before  from 
similar  attacks,  but  he  was  not  then,  as  now,  weakened 
by  the  results  of  hemiplegy.  Still,  unless  the  internal 
gout  should  again  manifest  itself,  I  see  no  reason  for 
further  anxiety." 

The  practitioner  from  L ,  near  by,  stayed  with 

Delaplaine  until  about  nine  o'clock  that  evening.  The 
patient  was  then  seemingly  better,  though  very  weak. 
He  slept  at  intervals,  awaking  after  dozes  of  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes'  duration,  and  complaining  of  extreme 
thirst.  It  was  not  thought  advisable  to  give  him  any 
means  of  gratifying  this  thirst  except  minutely-cracked 


428  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

ice,  which  he  disliked  and  protested  against  as  insuffi- 
cient to  relieve  his  needs. 

The  night  had  become  oppressively  hot.  A  full 
moon  flooded  the  lawns  of  Greenacre  and  showed  the 
great  river  beyond  them  in  a  scimetai'-like  curve  of 
brilliance.  All  the  windows  had  been  opened.  Olivia 
supposed  that  the  servants  would  close  the  house  below 
stairs  when  the  regular  time  came  for  doing  so  ;  she 
had  not  given  this  question  the  least  thought ;  she  had 
had  too  many  other  thoughts  of  over-towering  import 
with  which  to  concern  herself. 

Just  after  the  doctor  from  the  village  had  gone,  she 
said 'to  the  woman  who  watched  at  Delaplaine's  bed- 
side : 

"  You  may  go  and  lie  down,  now,  Martha.  I  will 
stay  here  for  two  or  three  hours.  When  I  grow  very 
tired  —  if  I  do  grow  so  —  I  will  go  upstairs  to  your 
room  and  call  you.  Then  you  can  relieve  me." 

"Yes,  ma'arn,"  said  Martha.  "Do  you  know  about 
the  medicine,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

They  were  standing  just  at  the  threshold  of  Dela- 
plaine's dim  room,  where  the  yellow  glow  of  a  shaded 
lamp  blent  with  the  silver  rays  drifting  in  through 
two  broad  windows. 

"  He  is  to  have  a  tea-spoon  of  that  medicine  in  the 
large  glass  —  the  aconite  —  every  hour,  provided  he 
awakes,"  continued  Olivia. 

"  That's  it,  ma'am,"  said  Martha.  "But  we're  to  be 
careful,  you  know." 

"Careful?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  The  doctor  said  it  was  so  danger- 
ous .  .  .  don't  you  remember,  ma'am  ?  " 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  429 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Olivia,  really  remembering. 
"  You  mean  he  might  drink  it  if  he  reached  out  his 
hand,  or  anything  like  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  recollect  what 
the  doctor  said.  But  he  seems  to  be  sleeping  quietly, 
now ;  and  besides,  Martha,  it's  not  on  the  table  by  the 
bedside ;  it's  there  on  the  bureau.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'll  be  very 
careful." 

Every  syllable  of  her  own  and  Martha's  words  ap- 
peared so  completely  unimportant,  then.  But  every 
syllable  returned  to  her  memory  with  so  frightful  a 
distinctness,  not  very  long  afterward ! 

Martha  went  upstairs  to  bed.  Olivia  stood  at  the 
door-sill  of  her  husband's  room  for  a  slight  while.  His 
breathing  was  quite  regular;  he  seemed  in  a  wholly 
placid  sleep.  She  passed  into  the  room  adjoining. 

It  was  the  library,  and  here,  too,  the  light  had  been 
turned  somewhat  low.  But  three  windows,  opened 
to  their  fullest  extent,  showed  the  magnificent  pearly 
glamour  of  the  moonlight,  whose  quality,  for  some  rea- 
son belonging  to  the  dead  sultriness  of  the  atmosphere, 
revealed  a  kind  of  milky,  brooding  thickness  as  the 
night  advanced. 

Olivia  seated  herself  near  one  of  the  windows.  If 
her  husband  should  wake  and  utter  the  least  sound 
she  knew  that  she  could  instantly  hear  him. 

She  brushed  the  hair  with  both  hands  back  from  her 
heated  temples,  and  leaned  out  as  far  as  the  window- 
ledge  would  let  her. 

She  was  thinking :  "  How  horrible  my  life  has  been 
of  late !  What  if  its  wretchedness  should  end  to-night, 
or  soon  after  to-night?  Do  I  hope  that  it  will?  Have 
I  power  quite  to  crush  down  such  a  hope  ?  Let  me 
try  —  let  me  try  with  all  my  soul !  .  .  .  I  used  to  have 


430  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

those  wicked  impulses  in  the  old  days  of  the  pension 
abroad.  I  thought  I  had  conquered  them,  when  I 
came  back  for  the  last  time  with  papa.  .  .  .  How  poor 
papa  used  to  laugh  at  them  !  .  .  .  I  wonder  if  he  is 
where  he  can  know  about  me  now,  and  be  sorry  that 
he  ever  did  laugh.  For  it  was  one  of  those  impulses 
that  made  me  —  Olivia  Delaplaine.  Yes,  it  was  all 
my  fault.  Neither  Aunt  Augusta  nor  Aunt  Letitia 
was  to  blame,  but  I,  only  I !  " 

Then  she  thought  of  Massereene,  as  she  sometimes 
could  not  help  but  think.  "Where  is  he  now?  Has 
he  forgotten  me?  If  anything  should  happen,  would 
he ?" 

But  she  forced  herself  to  banish  him  from  her  mind, 
as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before  now.  The 
exorcism  cost  her  a  struggle,  however.  To-night  the 
failure  to  effect  it  seemed  fraught  with  a  peculiar 
unduteousness.  "  He  is  so  good  and  high  himself ! " 
she  pursued,  rising  amid  the  vagueness  of  the  moonlit 
chamber.  "He  would  respect  me  more  if  he  knew 
that  I  had  striven  to " 

At  this  point  a  sound  broke  upon  her  ears.  She 
knew  on  the  instant  whence  it  proceeded.  Her  hus- 
band had  waked  and  uttered  it.  She  glided  without 
delay  into  the  next  chamber  where  he  was  lying. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  431 


XXIII. 

"Dro  you  call?'  she  asked,  pausing  at  Delaplaine's 
bedside. 

He  was  wide-awake.  A  beam  of  moonlight  had 
shot  in  from  one  of  the  windows,  and  spread  its  ice- 
like  pallor  across  his  colorless  face.  He  looked  like  a 
living  corpse. 

Olivia  waited  beside  him.  Some  change  in  his 
expression  (she  could  not  have  told  just  what)  made 
her  perceive  that  he  recognized  her. 

"Yes,  I  called,"  he  said,  presently.  His  eyes  had 
begun  to  wander  from  point  to  point  in  her  costume, 
as  a  child's  might  do,  pausing  once  more  at  her  face. 
And  then,  in  the  dimness,  Olivia  saw  that  a  new 
expression  filled  them.  It  was  vulpine  to  her,  and 
she  recoiled  from  it.  But  as  she  did  so,  he  reached 
out  a  hand  and  clutched  hers.  The  grasp  was  not  a 
strong  one  ;  she  could  easily  have  cast  it  off.  But  she 
did  not.  If  it  had  been  less  weak,  she  would  have 
done  so ;  but  as  it  was,  she  did  not. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  were  all  up  with  me, 
this  time,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a  voice  not  greatly  above 
a  whisper.  "  I  feel  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  that 
way."  His  voice  sank,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
eyes  with  which  he  now  fixedly  stared  into  her  own 
had  become  two  spots  of  fiery,  molten  gray.  She 
could  never  afterward  quite  be  sure  whether  this 
effect  was  born  of  her  own  disturbed  state  or  whether 


432  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

some  actual  basilisk-like  change  of  the  sort  really  took 
place. 

"I  hate  to  go,"  he  said,  "and  not  take  you  with 
me.  Ah !  if  I  only  could  have  you  die  when  I  died  J 
If  I  only  could !  You  witch,  you,  that  made  me  care 
for  you  in  my  old  age,  what  shall  I  do  without  you  if 
there  should  be  any  after-life  ?  .  .  .  Eh  ?  what  shall  I 
do  without  you?  If  I  were  only  strong  enough  to 
kill  you  just  when  I'd  got  sure  of  dying  myself! 
Then  we  'd  go  together  —  together.  That's  what  I 
want.  It's  horrible  to  think  of  going  like  this,  and 
leaving  you  with  all  that  youth  to  live  out,  and  all 
that  love  in  you,  too,  that  you  never  gave  me  the 
tiniest  part  of !  It's  horrible,  I  say,  Olivia,  and  ..." 

But  she  snatched  her  hand  away  from  him,  here. 
He  had  leaned  a  little  forward,  but  he  now  fell  back 
upon  the  pillows,  laughing  hoarsely  and  faintly  to 
himself. 

She  felt  certain,  by  this  time,  that  his  brain  was 
afflicted  with  some  serious  lesion,  even  if  she  had 
truly  doubted  it  during  many  weeks  before.  Shivers 
were  passing  through  all  her  nerves,  though  she  still 
forced  herself  to  remain  at  the  bedside.  He  roused 
in  her  an  abhorrence  that  strangely  blent  with  pity. 
She  loathed  and  shrank  from  him,  and  yet  she  could 
not  but  feel  now  that  the  ravage  of  his  disorder  had 
been  steal thier  than  she  herself  had  appreciated,  and 
that  his  present  almost  infantile  demeanor  showed  a 
brain  of  no  common  order  pitiably  wrecked.  Then, 
too,  the  thought  shot  through  her  mind :  '  If  I  had 
more  persistently  kept  before  me  this  fact  of  his  men- 
tal decay,  might  not  many  of  the  distressing  things  he 
has  done  have  lost  their  chief  power  to  wound  ? ' 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  433 

Still,  almost  simultaneously,  these  last  words  of  his 
were  ringing  through  recollection  with  a  frightful 
mockery.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  really  desired 
her  to  die  with  him,  in  case  he  himself  died?  His 
clutch  upon  her  wrist  had  affected  her  as  though  its 
coldness  and  clamminess  had  been  those  of  the  dead. 
She  felt  its  pressure  yet,  and  furtively  rubbed  the 
wrist  against  one  side  of  her  gown  as  she  at  length 
said : 

"  It  is  time  for  your  medicine.  I  must  give  it  to 
you  now." 

He  made  her  no  answer,  and  she  went  to  the  man- 
tel where  the  medicine  was  placed.  She  brought  it  to 
him.  The  glass  which  contained  it  was  almost  full. 
He  watched  it  with  a  greed  in  his  gaze. 

"I'm  thirsty,"  he  said. 

Olivia  was  stirring  the  liquid  in  the  glass  with  a 
spoon.  But  she  now  stopped,  and  looked  down  at  the 
small  table  placed  close  beside  the  bed.  "  There  is 
your  ice,"  she  answered. 

"  I  hate  that  horrid,  slippery  ice.  It  doesn't  quench 
my  thirst ;  it  only  aggravates  it  by  leaving  those  little 
drops  of  water  in  my  mouth  when  I  don't  want  drops 
of  water  at  all  —  when  I  want  a  whole  glassful,  like 
that  you  have  in  your  hand." 

"  This ! "  exclaimed  Olivia,  starting,  while  both  the 
doctor's  and  Martha's  words  came  back  to  her. 
"Why,  this  is  deadly  poison." 

"  And  you're  going  to  give  it  to  me ! "  he  said 
grimly,  as  she  stooped  down  toward  him  with  a  tea- 
spoonful  of  it. 

"  Only  .a  small  dose  at  a  time,"  she  answered.  "  It 
is  aconite,  you  know." 


434  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

He  let  her  place  the  spoon  between  his  lips.  "I 
didn't  know,"  he  muttered,  "  and  I  don't  much  care." 

Immediately  after  he  had  taken  the  medicine  he 
uttered  a  little  sound  of  exasperation,  and  as  she 
looked  inquiringly  into  his  face  she  saw  that  he  was 
again  staring  into  her  own. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,"  he  began  in  a  voice  as  husky 
as  it  was  meaning. 

"Too  sure?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  That  I  am  going  to  die  this  time.  Per- 
haps I'm  not.  Remember  how  I  fooled  you  once 
before.  Threatened  men,  you  know  ....  Don't  be 
too  sure,  that's  all." 

Olivia  repressed  a  shudder.  "It  is  all  in  God's 
hands,"  she  said. 

" God's  hands,"  he  grumbled;  "yes.  When  medi- 
cine goes  out  of  the  sick  room  by  one  door,  religion's 
invited  to  come  in  by  the  other.  ...  I  wish  you'd 
turn  that  light  down  lower.  It  keeps  me  from  sleep- 
ing. I  believe  it's  that ;  it  must  be  that." 

Olivia  at  once  obeyed  him,  turning  the  lamp  down 
until  it  made  but  a  vague  star  in  the  moonlight  as 
vague.  Her  hand  trembled  so  while  she  performed 
this  little  task  that  but  for  the  gloom  he  might  easily 
have  remarked  the  agitation  he  had  produced  in  her. 
To  have  him  read,  like  this,  emotions  that  she  had 
Bought  to  hide  even  from  her  own  intelligence !  There 
was  a  kind  of  crucial  wizardry  in  it  that  made  her 
want  to  fly  from  the  chamber  where  he  lay.  She  knew 
that  his  belief  as  to  his  not  sleeping  was  wholly  a  de- 
lusion, and  that  he  would  soon  have  dropped  into 
another  slumber  like  that  from  which  he  had  lately 
awakened.  Slipping  from  his  room,  she  gained  the 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  435 

one  adjoining  it.  Here  the  moonlight  was  much  am- 
pler of  volume,  and  a  great  silvery  medallion,  wrought 
by  it,  lay  upon  the  carpet.  She  had  a  calmer  sensa- 
tion, somehow  as  soon  as  she  was  in  this  other  apart- 
ment. .  .  .  Why  had  he  taunted  her  with  those  last 
words  of  his,  that  had  pierced  like  one  of  the  sharpest 
shafts  which  conscience  itself  can  forge  ? 

She  had  been  anticipating  his  death.  She  could  not 
help  doing  so.  But  if  by  any  preventive  act  she  could 
possibly  keep  him  alive,  would  she  not  perform  such 
act  with  all  willingness  and  promptitude  ? 

A  wave  of  new  nervous  dread  swept  over  her  as 
she  reflected  upon  what  he  had  just  said.  This  extra- 
ordinary fondness  of  his,  which  appeared  to  borrow  its 
modes  of  exhibition  from  antipathy  rather  than  affec- 
tion, might  perpetuate  itself  through  many  future 
years.  And  if  it  did,  how  hateful  must  be  her  lot! 
Men  with  his  vitality  lived  sometimes  until  ninety,  and 
past  that  age.  And  she,  if  this  prolongation  of  his  life 
occurred,  would  still  be  young  by  contrast  with  his 
afflicting,  bui'dening  decrepitude.  What  fresh  funds 
of  patience  and  self-control  must  she  draw  upon  to 
meet  the  continuance  of  all  this  martyrizing  bondship? 
Where  and  from  whom  should  she  seek  the  needful 
fortitude  ?  In  the  sore  straits  of  weariness,  exhaustion, 
disgust,  whence  to  draw  added  courage?  A  quette 
portef rapper  ? 

Suddenly,  after  perhaps  five  good  minutes  had 
passed,  while  she  stood  there  in  the  moonlight,  terri- 
fied at  the  potential  future  that  had  piled  its  masses  of 
gloom  before  her  mental  vision,  she  recollected  some- 
thing, and  a  sharp  little  gasp  left  her  lips. 

She  had  omitted  to  replace  the  glass  of  aconite  upon 


436  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

the  mantel.  It  was  there,  now,  on  the  table  at  her 
husband's  bedside ! 

She  flew  to  the  threshold  of  the  doorway  that  led 
into  his  room.  And  then,  almost  as  abruptly  as  if 
some  palpable  hand  had  set  upon  her  its  detaining  con- 
tact, she  paused. 

Paused.  .  .  but  why?  She  knew,  and  yet  her  brain 
had  begun  to  whirl  in  a  chaotic  way. 

Why  did  she  not  go  to  him  and  take  the  glass  of 
poison  from  where  he  could  so  easily  reach  it  ?  She 
kept  asking  herself  this  question,  dumbly,  insistently, 
and  yet  .  .  she  still  remained  immovable. 

With  a  frightful  panoramic  vividness,  occurrence 
after  occurrence  of  her  past  life  had  begun  to  rush 
before  hej*  inward  vision.  She  saw  herself  at  the  pen- 
sion, beset  again  and  again  by  those  malign  attacks  of 
evil  tendency  at  which  her  father  had  afterwards 
laughed  so  lightly  but  of  whose  pregnant  meaning  she 
was  herself  far  better  aware  than  he.  Bursts  of  mis- 
chief as  they  had  been,  they  had  preluded  that  larger 
temptation,  that  more  momentous  fall,  which  had 
made  her  the  wife  of  Spencer  Delaplaine. 

And  now  ?  She  had  only  to  leave  the  glass  there  a 
little  longer.  If  he  drank  o'f  it  she  would  not  be  giv- 
ing him  to  drink  of  it.  He  might  reach  out  his  hand, 
and  lift  it  to  his  lips,  in  the  craving  of  his  thirst.  It 
Avould  kill  him,  no  doubt,  before  they  could  get  the 
doctor  to  his  bedside.  .  .  Well;  and  if  it  did  kill  him? 

"  Wait  here  just  a  few  more  minutes,"  a  voice  had 
begun  piercingly  to  whisper.  "You've  a  right  to  wait 
here  if  you  chose.  And  should  he  reach  out  for  that 
glass  and  drink  what  it  contains,  imagining  this  to  be 
water,  how  should  such  an  act  at  all  incriminate  you? 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  437 

The  chances  are  that  he  will  not  drink ;  for  he  does 
not  even  know  that  the  glass  is  there.  How  should 
he  know  ?  He  asked  you  to  make  the  room  darker, 
and  you  did  so.  He  has  most  probably  fallen  into 
another  doze.  .  .  Still,  wait  here  a  little  while  longer. 
You  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  so.  Wait.  There; 
the  time  is  passing  on,  on,  even  now.  Before  you 
fairly  know  it,  fifteen,  twenty  minutes  will  have 
elapsed.  So  much  may  happen  in  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes." 

Olivia's  eyes,  all  this  time,  were  riveted  upon  the 
window  through  which  the  misty  silver  of  the  moon 
was  passing.  She  "lived  through  many  a  new  moon 
before  the  beams  of  it  had  become  to  her  anything 
else  than  a  ghastly  reminder  of  that  fateful  interval. 
The  lawns  went  sloping  off  into  nebulous  dreams  of 
their  own  spaciousness;  and,  beyond,  glittered  the 
huge  river.  It  had  the  sparkle  of  diamonds,  of  wealth ; 
it  was  shaped  like  a  curving  sword  as  it  lay  along  the 
shadowed  lands,  and  a  sword  symbolled  power.  But 
though  power  was  good ,  liberty  was  more  what  Olivia 
longed  for.  Perhaps  the  contour  of  the  sword  meant 
that  too  —  the  severance  of  bonds  that  were  both  an 
agony  and  a  horror!  These  wholly  idle  fancies,  rush- 
ing with  gloomier  and  weightier  thoughts  through  her 
brain,  as  light  foam-wreaths  will  cling  to  dark  throngs 
of  on-rolling  surges  and  be  borne  whither  they  hurry, 
came  back  to  Olivia  with  a  fearful  definiteness  during 
after  reflections. 

She  did  not  turn  from  the  sophistries  of  that  voice. 
She  let  it  speak  still  further ;  she  listened  to  it.  Her 
heart  had  got  beating  so  violently  that  its  strokes 
sounded  like  hammer-blows  in  her  ears.  She  realized 


438  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

that  this  baneful  force,  though  a  mere  pranksome  imp 
of  old,  had  grown  a  devil  now,  and  had  silently  but 
jeeringly  challenged  her  to  wrestle  with  him  and  over- 
come him.  What  a  contrast  between  this  demon  and 
that  of  her  girlhood !  What  a  contrast,  and  yet  how 
traceable,  how  authentic  a  similarity  ! 

But  a  full  conception  of  her  own  resistant  power  at 
last  broke  upon  Olivia.  She  sprang  aloof,  as  it  were, 
from  the  sorcery  of  temptation  enmeshing  her.  She 
spoke  to  her  own  soul  in  that  clarion  way  which  it 
cannot  but  hear.  Truth  itself  seemed  to  leap  up  her 
ally,  and  to  help  her  destoy  this  enslaving  spell,  as  the 
breeze  might  help  a  taintless  flower  to  shake  from  its 
petals  the  brackish  water  that  some  fro  ward  chance 
had  spilled  upon  it. 

"  Free  ?  "  she  faintly  sobbed  to  herself,  recollecting 
the  fancy  that  the  sword -sh aped  glory  of  the  river 
had  given  her.  "I  am  free  now!  Thank  God  for 
saving  me ! " 

But  abruptly  a  new  thought  darted  through  her 
mind.  A  certain  length  of  time  had  intervened  be- 
tween the  beginning  of  that  miserable  struggle  and 
the  present  moment.  How  long  had  it  been  ?  Say  ten, 
twelve,  even  twenty  minutes. 

What  if— ? 

But  she  would  not  let  herself  think  the  thought  out. 
She  sped  through  the  little  passage-way  leading  into  her 
husband's  room.  It  was  just  as  dim  as  she  had  left  it. 
She  stood  with  her  foot  on  the  threshold,  listening. 
At  first  she  told  herself  that  she  could  hear  him 
breathe  with  the  regularity  of  one  who  sleeps  tran- 
quilly. But  soon  she  had  become  otherwise  convinced ; 
he  was  breathing  in  an  odd  and  very  uncertain  way. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  439 

And  then,  making  her  strained  nerves  tingle,  he  gave, 
without  any  warning,  a  heavy  and  most  painful  groan. 

Olivia  hurried  to  the  lamp  and  turned  it  up.  Then 
her  glance  shot  toward  the  little  table  at  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

The  glass  was  there,  but  it  was  empty. 

She  would  not  believe  her  own  senses  at  first.  She 
went  nearer  to  the  table  and  peered  down  at  the  glass. 
Yes !  Empty ! 

Still  clinging  to  a  last  frail  hope  that  her  eyesight 
had  tricked  her,  she  raised  the  glass  in  her  hand.  But 
it  fell  from  her  effete  fingers  to  the  floor. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  pick  it  up,  or  even  to  ascer- 
tain whether  it  had  been  broken  or  no.  She  had  turned 
her  look  upon  her  husband's  face.  He  had  closed  his 
eyes,  and  lay  upon  his  back.  He  appeared  to  be  quite 
unconscious.  She  leaned  over  him  and  grasped  his 
shoulder,  slightly  shaking  his  form  once  or  twice.  He 
seemed  either  in  a  state  of  sluggish  coma,  or  else  dead. 
Which  was  it? 

She  rang  the  bell  violently  several  times.  Then  she 
sank  down  on  her  knees  at  his  bedside.  Her  face  was 
hueless,  her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  together,  her 
eyes  were  dilated,  as  though  she  were  undergoing  some 
intense  physical  torture. 


440  OLIVIA  UELAPLAINE. 


XXIV. 

AFTERWARD  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream  —  as 
if  .the  servants  who  came  hastening  into  the  room 
were  visionary  shapes  —  as  if  the  voice  with  which  she 
addressed  them  and  that  with  which  they  answered 
her  were  heard  through  deadening  folds  of  fog.  The 
poison  had  begun  speedily  to  work  upon  Delaplaine, 
as  aconite  nearly  always  does,  and  his  sufferings  became 
acute.  He  complained  of  a  wretched  giddiness,  of  a 
peculiar  tingling  in  his  arms  and  hands,  of  pain  in  the 
abdomen,  of  an  almost  asphyxiating  heaviness  about 
the  heart.  Then  followed  spasms  of  the  most  racking 
nausea,  with  other  symptoms  no  less  deplorable.  Be- 
lieving that  her  husband  would  die,  it  was  a  relief  to 
Olivia  when  he  at  length  ceased  staring  at  her  and 
entirely  lost  consciousness.  Until  the  arrival  of  the 
doctor  she  joined  the  servants  in  leaving  scarcely  an 
effort  at  restoration  untried.  From  the  first  she  had 
not  hesitated  to  tell  them,  one  and  all,  the  cause  of  this 
unexpected  attack.  If  she  had  failed  to  do  so  she 
would  have  seemed  to  herself  like  a  veritable  murder- 
ess concealing  her  crime.  And,  as  it  was,  she  had 
already  told  herself,  with  pangs  of  remorse  which  made 
her  heart  feel  as  if  it  were  being  cut  in  twain,  that 
Delaplaine's  death,  if  this  really  occurred,  would  be 
a  result  of  those  few  minutes  wherein  she  had  so 
weakly,  ignobly  lingered  and  demurred. 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  441 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine  must  have  drank  his  medicine," 
she  said,  "  for  I  found  the  glass  empty  on  returning  to 
his  room  after  being  away  from  it  only  a  little  while." 

And  then  to  her  own  soul  she  mutely  added : 
"  Though  they  arrest  me  and  put  me  in  prison  as  his 
assassin,  I  will  speak  the  truth.  God  knows,  if  I  did 
not  do  that  I  should  then  despise  myself  even  more 
than  now?" 

When  the  doctor  at  last  came  she  told  him  in  a 
clear  and  perfectly  sustained  manner  just  how  her  hus- 
band's illness  had  been  brought  about.  "I  may  have 
been  careless  in  leaving  the  glass  of  medicine  on  the 
table  at  his  bedside,"  she  finished,  "  but  it  could  not 
have  remained  there  more  than  twenty  minutes  at  the 
utmost,  and  the  room  had  been  darkened  through  Mr. 
Delaplaine's  desire,  as  he  said  that  he  wished  to  sleep 
and  could  not  do  so  otherwise." 

"  Mr.  Delaplaine  did  not  know  that  the  medicine 
was  on  the  table,  I  suppose,"  said  the  physician.  He 
was  watching,  as  he  spoke,  the  few  faint  convulsions 
that  of  late  had  assailed  the  sick  man.  He  had  already 
concluded  that  there  was  no  chance  whatever  of  saving 
his  patient's  life ;  the  dose  had  been  too  heavy  a  one, 
and  too  much  precious  time  had  been  lost  before  he  had 
been  enabled  to  reach  Greenacre. 

"  I  think  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  medicine 
being  there,"  answered  Olivia.  "  I  imagine  that  he 
gave  this  point  no  heed  at  all,  however,  and  simply 
drank  the  first  liquid  that  he  could  find." 

"  Strange,"  murmured  the  doctor." 

"Do  you  consider  it  strange?"  Olivia  asked,  with 
controlled  voice  and  a  self-possession  that  surprised 
her  while  she  assumed  it. 


442  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  Yes,"  came  the  reply.  This  country  doctor  was  a 
quaint  man,  replete  with  bony  angles,  and  having  two 
dark,  bluish  streaks  under  his  eyes  that  gave  to  his 
long,  haggard  face  a  look  no  less  lugubrious  than  sin- 
cere. You  had  only  to  glance  at  him  in  order  to  see 
what  a  terribly  serious  matter  with  him  was  the  rising 
of  each  day's  sun,  and  also  the  going  down  thereof. 
He  had  instantly  begun  to  blame  himself  for  having 
left  so  large  a  dose  of  the  deadly  aconite  in  Dela- 
plaine's  apartment,  and  for  not  having  sufficiently 
warned  those  who  surrounded  the  invalid  concerning 
just  how  baneful  a  preparation  it  was.  He  was  a 
person,  this  Dr.  Matthew  Gleason,  who  rather  mor- 
bidly blamed  himself  a  great  deal  for  a  great  many 
things. 

"  Yes,"  he  now  repeated.  "  If,  as  you  say,  the  room 
was  dark  and  no  one  was  here  to  hand  it  to  him,  why, 
his  taking  it  at  all  was  certainly  strange." 

The  color  flew  to  Olivia's  cheeks.  But  for  a  brief 
period,  at  least,  her  sensations  were  not  guilty  ones. 
It  gave  her,  indeed,  a  certain  hectic  gladness  to  speak 
the  next  words,  which  fell  from  her  lips  with  a  little 
accent  of  indignation : 

"  No  one  could  have  been  here  to  hand  it  to  him.  I 
hardly  understand  your  meaning,  Dr.  Gleason.  One 
would  suppose —  " 

But  the  doctor  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  bending 
over  Delaplaine,  in  whom  the  first  struggles  of  death 
were  beginning.  Assiduously,  spurred  by  an  energy 
that  seemed  determined  to  leave  no  conceivable  re- 
source unused,  this  sombre  man  worked  on  and  on, 
for  an  hour  or  more,  with  remedy  and  antidote.  But 
at  length  he  failed,  as  he  had  been  almost  convinced 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAISH.  443 

beforehand  that  he  must  fail.  Perhaps  the  anticipation 
of  how  much  he  was  hereafter  to  have  on  his  brooding 
and  sensitive  conscience  through  the  dreary  and  lonely 
nights  of  the  coming  winter,  stimulated  him  now  into 
making  the  prospective  burden  as  light  as  possible. 

The  sultry  summer  dawn  was  just  breaking  when 
Spencer  Delaplaine  died.  He  had  been  breathing  al- 
most imperceptibly  for  some  little  while,  when  with- 
out a  hint  of  premonition  his  frame  was  disturbed  by 
two  or  three  light,  swift  shivers. 

Dr.  Gleason  stooped  down,  with  a  ducking  gesture 
whose  infinite  awkwardness  could  not  escape  Olivia, 
notwithstanding  her  perturbed  state.  He  placed  one 
of  his  large  ears  just  below  the  left  breast  of  the  pros- 
trate man,  and  appeared  for  several  minutes  to  be 
listening  intently. 

When  he  raised  his  head,  he  at  once  turned  toward 
Olivia.  She  silently  bowed,  wondering  at  her  own 
thorough  calmness.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  new 

o  o 

gravity  that  had  gathered  upon  the  doctor's  habitually 
mournful  face. 

"Dead?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  below  his  breath,  and  she 
fancied  that  he  shot  at  her,  from  his  doleful  eyes,  a 
look  of  irrepressible  reproach  and  accusation.  .  .  . 

But  she  was  mistaken  here.  In  about  half  an  hour 
Dr.  Gleason  had  asked  her  to  give  him  a  few  moments 
of  private  conversation.  They  went  together  into  the 
room  adjoining  that  where  Delaplaine  had  lately  ex- 
pired. The  moonlight  had  given  place  to  the  dawn, 
and  Dr.  Gleason's  countenance,  illumined  by  the 
whitish  glimmer  that  struck  upon  it,  confronted 
Olivia  with  an  unearthly  ugliness. 


444  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"Is  he  going  to  charge  me  with  having  killed  my 
husband?"  she  asked  herself,  as  she  stood  before  him 
in  statue-like  composure. 

But  Dr.  Gleason  had  not  the  remotest  intention  of 
playing  any  such  grim  part.  On  the  contrary,  he 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  with  tones  full  of  con- 
science-stricken disarray : 

"Mrs.  Delaplaine,  this  unhappy  accident  has  oc- 
curred, and — and  it  must  (I  feel  sure  that  it  must) 
reflect  very  unfortunately  upon  —  upon  myself  as  a 
medical  man.  If  possible,  I  would  endeavor  to  have 
the  real  facts  hidden.  But  that  cannot  be.  Too 
many  people  are  already  acquainted  with  them.  .  .  . 
As  for  my  culpability,  I  —  I  don't  know  just  how  other 
physicians  —  those  who  practice  in  the  great  centres 
like  New  York  —  will  regard  my  —  my  share  in  the 
mistake.  There  is  no  doubt  that  I  might  have  left  a 
smaller  portion  of  the  dilution.  But  as  it  was,  I  gave 
clear  warning  in  the  matter  of  its  noxious  quality. 
And  just  now  I  am  hard-worked  in  the  village.  It 
has  been  an  unhealthy  summer.  I  feared  lest  I  might 
not  reach  Mr.  Delaplaine  again  until  to-morrow  —  I 
should  say  this  afternoon.  And  therefore  I  acted  as 
seemed  to  me  most  wise  and  prudent.  But  I  have 
apparently  committed  a  —  a  most  grievous  professional 
error.  I  acknowledge  this ;  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty 
to  make  such  acknowledgment,  both  before  you 
and " 

But  here  Olivia  broke  in.  "I  cannot  see  where 
your  error  lies,"  she  said.  "Blame,  if  there  is  any 
blame,  should  belong  to  those  with  whom  you  left  the 
dangerous  drug,  after  having  so  explicitly  warned 
them."  And  now  she  rested  one  hand  upon  Dr. 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  445 

Gleason's  big,  angular  arm.  "  I  shall  tell  everybody," 
she  went  on,  "that  you  deserve  the  fullest  exonera- 
tion." Her  voice  almost  failed  her,  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  then  she  again  continued,  with  a  fresh  repose  and 
serenity:  "I  shall  tell  everybody  —  I  promise  you 
this  most  faithfully  —  that  my  husband's  death  has 
been  due  to  my  own  neglect  in  leaving  that  glass  of 
aconite  near  him,  even  for  the  short  space  of  time  that 
I  did  so  leave  it." 

Dr.  Gleason  stretched  forth  one  of  his  large-knuckled 
hands  and  clasped  one  of  her  own  with  it. 

"  Oil,  Mrs  Delaplaine,  I  thank  you !  I  thank  you  so 
much!  You  —  you  haven't  just  taken  the  load  from 
my  mind,  but  you've  —  you've  eased  me  wonder- 
fully!" .  .  . 

Olivia  kept  her  word.  From  the  morrow,  as  might 
be  said,  she  faced  the  whole  world  unflinchingly  with 
the  truth.  Or,  if  not  the  real  truth,  with  enough  of  it 
to  make  everybody  believe  that  she  had  kept  nothing 
in  reserve.  The  former  gossip  concerning  her  pecu- 
liar marriage  was  now  revived,  and  perhaps  a  few 
cruel  things  were  said  in  connection  with  that  and  the 
almost  equally  peculiar  manner  of  her  husband's 
death.  But  these  comments  were  spared  Olivia. 
And,  yet,  for  that  matter,  she  heai'd  them  in  imagi- 
nation ;  for  this  was  a  period  of  her  life  when  those 
receptivities  that  mean  in  us  the  dealing  of  deep  and 
incessant  wounds  were  with  Olivia  most  briskly  opera- 
tive. Night  followed  night,  after  Delaplaine's  death, 
and  not  an  instant  of  sleep  came  to  her.  It  was  the 
sort  of  insomnia  that  has  no  briefer  moods  of  mercy. 
"I  shall  go  mad,"  she  had  begun  to  gasp  in  the  dead 
night-watches,  sitting  up  in  bed  and  hearing  the  clock 


446  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

tick  and  the  very  darkness  itself  seem  to  flow  about 
her  in  whirls  and  counter-currents.  But  she  had  the 
vigor  of  youth,  as  yet,  for  this  vampire  of  distempers 
to  draw  upon.  An  increased  pallor  was  the  sole 
change  in  her  that,  during  several  days,  any  of  those 
whom  circumstances  called  upon  most  closely  to 
observe  her  remarked. 

Meanwhile  Delaplaine's  body  had  been  brought  to 
West  Tenth  Street,  and  his  funeral  had  been  held  at 
Grace  Church  with  that  preponderance  of  black  coats 
which  invariably  will  mark  such  ceremonials  when  they 
take  place  in  the  middle  of  the  summer  season.  The 
Auchinclosses  had  felt  it  their  "duty"  to  come  into 
town,  notwithstanding  the  extreme  discomfort  of  the 
heat,  but  the  Satterthwaites  had  remained  at  Newport 
and  written  Olivia  a  note  of  "condolence."  That  is, 
Emmeline  (who  had  secret  misgivings  lest  her  future 
wedding-present,  when  she  married  Arthur  Plunkett 
in  the  autumn,  might  suffer  as  to  size  and  general 
expensiveness)  volunteered  to  represent  her  family  by 
the  composition  of  such  a  note.  She  began  it  with  a 
yawn  and  ended  it  with  one.  "  Oh,  dear,"  she  said, 
after  two  sheets  of  her  mourning-rimmed  paper  had 
been  covered,  "  what  monstrous  fibs  I  have  told  !  The 
idea  of  alluding  to  Olivia's  '  painful  affliction,'  when 
we  all  know,  and  she  knows  we  all  know,  that  if  she 
has  any  feeling  at  all  regarding  the  affair,  it  must  be 
one  of  pure  delight." 

" Delight ?"  echoed  her  sister,  Elaine,  lazily.  "Oh, 
Em  !  isn't  that  too  strong  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  Emmeline,  "  provided  his 
Will  is  found  to  leave  her  everything." 

"  It  has  somehow  got  around,"  said  Elaine,  with  a 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  447 

note  of  conviction  in  her  voice,  "  that  he  has  left  her 
very  little.  They  say  he  got  to  perfectly  detest  her 
for  some  time  before  he  died.  How  horrible  if  he 
left  her  poor/" 

"Oh,  d<m?t!n  remonstrated  Emmeline,  as  if  the 
possibility  were  too  harrowing  a  one  for  serious  con- 
templation. 

But  Spencer  Delaplaine  left  his  wife  all  his  very 
large  property,  without  reservation  or  stipulation  of 
any  sort.  Olivia  was  keenly  surprised  when  she 
learned  this  fact ;  she  had  expected  (when  thinking 
at  all  on  the  subject)  a  legacy  as  great  as  the  law  itself 
apportioned  her  and  not  a  dime  greater.  She  was  now 
an  exceedingly  rich  young  widow ;  but  during  those 
days  of  feverish  inward  turmoil  and  outward  tranquil- 
lity, she  found  herself  constantly  forgetting  that  this 
was  the  case. 

The  lawyers,  .however,  soon  began  most  pertina- 
ciously to  remind  her  of  it.  "  I  guess,  'Livia,  they'll 
worry  an'  pester  you  a  good  deal  'fore  you're  through 
with  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Ottarson,  who  was  sitting  with 
her  one  day,  and  whom  Olivia  liked  to  have  at  the 
West  Tenth  Street  house  as  often  as  that  lady  could 
spare  the  time  for  coming. 

"  There  would  be  no  worriment  at  all,  Aunt  Thyrza," 
she  replied,  "if  —  if  .  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  lifted 
her  hands  to  her  eyes,  rubbing  them  almost  as  a 
sleepy  child  might  do.  "  Well,"  she  finished,  with  a 
little  laugh  as  faint  as  it  was  discordant,  "if  I  were 
only  feeling  more  .  .  .  more  as  I  used  to  feel,  some- 
how." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  with  the  saddest  of 
tremors,  and  then  a  forced  brightening  of  demeanor 
followed  them. 


448  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

Mrs.  Ottarson  gave  a  little  start,  and  afterward  let 
her  black  eyes  dwell  very  fixedly  indeed  upon  Olivia, 
while  the  latter  bent  her  head  over  a  legal  document 
which  the  servant  had  recently  handed  her. 

Presently  Mrs.  Ottarson  rose  from  her  chair.  Olivia 
did  not  seem  to  be  aware  that  she  had  done  so  until 
the  lady's  hand  touched  her  shoulder. 

"'Livia?" 

"Well,  aunt?" 

"  Look  here,  'Livia." 

Down  sat  Mrs.  Ottarson,  after  that,  and  close  to  her 
niece's  side.  She  caught  one  of  Olivia's  hands  and 
held  it  pressed  tight  in  her  own. 

"Now,  'Livia,"  she  recommenced,  "I  want  you  jus' 
t'  look  right  straight  at  me.  No  droppin'  your  eyes 
like  that,  deary  :  I  ain't  'fraid  t'  meet  your  eyes  .... 
There;  that's  it.  ...  Now,  'Livia,  you're  jus'  mis'ra- 
ble!  I've  seen  it  ever  since  you  sent  for  me  t'  come 
here.  I've  watched  you  pretty  smart,  too,  all  the 
while  we've  been  t'gether,  an'  I'm  ready  to  swear 
somethin'  's  half  settin'  you  crazy." 

"  Oh,  no,  Aunt  Thyrza  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes.  Aunt  Thyrzy!  Come,  now,  you  can't 
fool  me  like  that.  I  will  jus'  know  w'at  't  is.  Out 
with  it,  now,  'Livia.  I  ain't  to  be  bluffed  off." 

"I  —  I  sleep  badly,"  murmured  Olivia.  She  had 
lifted  her  eyes  but  now  she  had  again  drooped  them. 
"The  truth  is,  if  you  will  know,  that  I  —  I  don't 
sleep  at  all" 

"Don't  sleep  at  all?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  haven't  had  a  minute's 
sleep,  since  —  " 

"  I  understand.     Since  that  night.    You're  worryin* 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  449 

'bout  his  drinkin'  that  med'cine.  'S  if  you  could  a 
helped  it !  " 

"  I  could  have  helped  it." 

She  whispered  the  words.  Mrs.  Ottarson  barely 
caught  them.  "  Could  ? "  she  repeated.  .  .  .  And 
then  the  color  died  quite  out  of  her  olive  cheeks. 
"  'Livia,  you  don't  mean  w'at  you're  sayin' !  No,  you 
don't!"  Suddenly  lowering  her  tones,  she  pursued: 
"Watever  you  do  mean,  tell  me!  Don't  be  'fraid. 
Tell  me/" 

She  dropped  Olivia's  hand.  She  put  forth  both 
arms  and  threw  them  round  her  companion's  form, 
through  which  shivers  had  begun  to  pass  in  quick, 
alarming  succession. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  Olivia  cried,  while  her  head  fell 
upon  her  aunt's  shoulder.  "I  will  tell  you,  though 
you  should  hate  and  loathe  me  after  you've  heard ! " 
Then  her  voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper.  "I  —  I  left 
the  medicine  there  by  mistake.  He  wanted  the  lamp 
turned  down,  and  I  tui-ned  it.  All  that  is  true. 
Everything  you've  heard  me  say  is  true.  But  .  .  . 
there  is  something  else." 

"  Something  else  ?    Well,  what  ?  " 

"  This ! "  she  answered,  in  a  choked,  hoarse  way. 
And  now  for  perhaps  five  minutes,  with  her  head  still 
on  Mrs.  Ottarson's  shoulder,  she  spoke,  agitatedly, 
brokenly,  but  not  once  with  the  least  sign  of  tears. 
Her  ending  sentence  was :  "  There,  I  have  con- 
fessed to  you  just  what  a  guilty  creature  I  am, 
and  how  little  sympathy  I  deserve  from  any  living 
fellow-creature  except  those  as  much  steeped  in  sin  as 
myself!" 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  no  response  to  this 


450  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

hopelessly  mournful   outburst.     Then  Olivia  felt  her 
aunt's  arms  tightening  about  her  frame. 

"  You  great  goose ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ottarson. 
"  'Xcuse  me,  'Livia,  but  I  can't  help  it !  W'y  w'at  on 
earth  did  you  do?  You  jus'  stood  there  in  that  dark 
room,  an'  had  a  few  evil  thoughts.  Who  mightn't  a 
had  'em,  if  they'd  been  through  all  you'd  been  through  ? 
An'  then  you  conquered  'em,  as  you  was  certain  to 
conquer  'em,  an'  rushed  in  t'  where  he  was  layin'. 
My!  isfctoall?" 

Olivia  raised  her  head,  and  stared  supplicatingly, 
childishly,  passionately,  at  the  speaker. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Thyrza,  are  you  in  earnest?  Don't 
deceive  me!  It  means  so  much  to  me  if  you  think  — 
if  you  really  think  —  that  I.  .  .  "  She  could  say  no 
more,  and  just  as  her  lips  were  trembling  incapably 
her  aunt  placed  a  heavy  and  hearty  kiss  upon 
them. 

"Who's  dreampt  o'  deceivin'  you,  Livvy?  W'y  it's 
all  sheer  nonsense  f  you  to  go  on  so  'bout  nothin'  't 
all.  Ev'rybody  has  spells  o'  badness  like  that.  It's 
the  way  the  devil  tries  to  catch  his  own,  I  s'pose. 
Gracious!  I've  had  'em  fifty  times.  An'  la  snkes 
alives,  what  did  you  do,  after  all  ?  'Livia,  'f  you  really 
felt  well  you  wouldn't  care  a  snap  for  such  rubbishy 
fancies.  .  .  .  You  ain't  well,  an'  you  mus'  see  a  doctor. 
.  .  .  I'm  glad  you're  cryin' ;  't  will  do  you  good. 
'T  ain't  the  first  time,  is  it,  Liv,  you've  cried  on  this 
old  shoulder  o'  mine  ?  " 

Olivia's  tears  came  in  a  tempest.  Perhaps  they 
saved  her  reason.  That  night  she  slept  profoundly, 
and  far  on  into  the  next  morning.  Physically  she  was 
well  enough  afterward.  But  nevertheless  a  certain 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  451 

reaction  succeeded  the  supreme  burst  of  thankfulness 
and  exultation  which  Mrs.  Ottarson's  comforting  words 
had  invoked.  Olivia  soon  found  herself  looking  at 
her  own  behavior  in  what  she  could  not  but  assure  her 
own  moral  sense  was  the  properly  judicial  light.  She 
had  been  so  far  from  actually  causing  the  death  of  her 
husband  that  to  accuse  herself  of  having  played  such  a 
hideous  part  was  clear  absurdity.  Her  temptation- 
had  amounted  to  this :  She  had  remained  passive  for 
a  certain  number  of  minutes  when  passivity  might 
have  meant  fatal  neglect  of  duty.  She  had  resisted 
the  impulse  to  continue  away  from  Delaplaine's  bed- 
side —  stoutly  and  successfully  resisted  it.  But  success 
had  not  come  until  a  certain  time  had  gone;  and 
during  that  time  the  death-dealing  potion  had  been 
lifted  to  the  invalid's  lips.  Had  she  staid  near  him, 
she,  his  voluntary  nurse  —  had  she  been  a  sentinel  at 
her  post  and  not  one  who  did  worse  than  to  desert  it 
—  she  might  easily  enough  have  saved  his  life. 

"  It  all  lies  there,"  Olivia  afterward  ruminated :  — 
"in  the  fact  that  I  allowed  those  minutes  to  pass  before 
I  had  put  that  hateful  feeling  away  from  me  !  I  shall 
never  pardon  myself  for  that  hesitation.  I  shall  never 
cease  to  blame  myself  because  of  it.  I  shall  always 
think  of  myself  as  different  from  the  fellow-creatures 
whom  I  daily  meet  and  talk  with.  Even  though  I 
may  not  have  committed  a  positive  crime,  the  shadow 
of  one  has  fallen  upon  me.  Amid  that  shadow  my 
spirit  must  dwell,  alone  and  apart,  from  now  until 
I  die." 

In  the  second  or  third  week  of  the  autumn  following 
Delaplaine's  death,  Jasper  Massereene  called  upon 
Olivia.  She  had  heard  that  he  had  been  in  Newport 


452  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

all  cummer,  and  had  dreaded  lest  he  should  present 
himself  in  West  Tenth  Street  on  his  return.  For  it 
belonged  to  the  gloom  of  that  "shadow"  in  which 
through  the  rest  of  her  days  she  must  be  bathed,  not 
to  permit  any  but  terms  of  the  most  distant  future 
acquaintanceship  between  herself  and  Massereene. 

But  for  once,  at  least,  she  resolved  to  see  him. 
Thereafter  she  would  avoid  doing  so  as  far  as  lay  in 
her  power.  She  had  silently  rehearsed  their  meeting 
a  hundred  times,  but  when  it  took  the  guise  of  reality 
it  was  so  diametrically  different  from  what  she  had 
expected  !  They  shook  hands  with  the  most  ordinary 
kind  of  collectedness  on  both  sides.  They  fell  to 
talking  of  Newport  in  tones  and  terms  that  might 
have  been  employed  by  two  persons  without  a  single 
true  common  interest. 

"  They  tell  me  it  is  a  very  delightful  place,"  Olivia 
said. 

"  Oh,  very.     You  have  never  been  there  ?  " 

"No.  .  .  .  Were  you  quite  gay  while  there?" 

"  Not  gay  at  all.  I  did  not  see  many  people.  I  had 
pleasant  rooms,  and  I  read  a  good  deal,  drove  or  rode 
a  good  deal,  and  occasionally  dined  with  friends, 
though  not  oftener  than  twice  a  week." 

"You  selected  a  rather  fashionable  spot  to  be  quiet 
in." 

"  That,  I  found,  is  the  charm  of  Newport.  You  can 
be  as  retired  in  the  midst  of  all  the  merrymaking  as 
though  you  were  a  hundred  miles  off."  He  hesitated, 
and  looked  with  a  sudden  meaning  animation  at  Olivia. 
In  an  instant,  as  it  were,  she  realized  that  her  ordeal 
had  begun. 

"  Besides,"  he  added,  "  I  had  no  choice  for  amuse- 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  453 

ment  —  no  choice  and  no  heart.  You  may  perhaps 
guess  why." 

"  I  may  guess  ?  "  she  asked,  making  her  voice  neutral, 
except  for  its  faint,  conventional  shading  of  surprise. 

He  ignored  this  composed  answer,  "  I  came  in  town 
for  .  .  .  the  funeral,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  call  upon 
you  afterward,  but  thought  it  best  not  to  do  so.  I 
suppose  that  was  the  wiser  plan  ;  was  it  not? 

"  I  was  quite  unwell  for  some  time  afterward,"  she 
said. 

"  Naturally.     The  shock  must  have  affected  you." 

"It  did." 

"But  you  have  recovered  by  this,  I  hope." 

«  Oh,  yes." 

There  was  a  silence.  She  felt  rather  than  saw  his 
eyes  restlessly  sweep  her  face.  "May  I  say  to  you," 
he  began,  "  that  I  trust  my  coming  this  afternoon  has 
not  been  at  all  ...  inopportune  ?  " 

She  bit  her  lips.     "  Inopportune  ?  "  she  repeated. 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture,  and  leaned  nearer 
toward  her.  "  You  are  receiving  me  with  a  terrible 
coldness,"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  have  I  done  to  de- 
serve it  ?  " 

"You  have  done  nothing;  you  are  always  blame- 
less," Olivia  answered,  with  a  little  defiant,  hollow, 
embarrassed  laugh  that  she  immediately  regretted. 
"  It  is  I,"  she  added,  with  a  less  artificial  air  and  just 
the  hint  of  a  break  in  her  voice,  "  I  who  continually 
am  making  myself  culpable." 

"  You  imagine  that  you  are,"  he  said,  with  an  in- 
stant kindness.  "  Surely  you  had  done  nothing,  in 
former  days,  to  feel  so  grievously  guilty  about ;  it  had 
all  been  done  to  you.  And  yet  you  dwelt  in  a  perpet- 


454  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

ual  atmosphere  of  self-arraignment  .  .  .  And  now  — 
well,  I  have  not  caught  even  a  rumor  of  what  your 
true  spirits  are,  but  I  will  engage  they  are  dark  with 
remorse  and  repentance." 

He  had  ended  smilingly,  but  she  almost  snatched 
the  words  from  his  lips,  while  her  face  was  whitening. 
"  Remorse  —  repentance  ?  "  she  cried.  "  What  do  you 
mean?  Why  —  why  should  I  feel  either?" 

"You  look  as  if  you  might  have  been  a  sufferer  from 
both,"  said  Massereene,  shaking  his  head  while  the 
smile  deepened  on  his  lips.  "  Ah,  I  was  sure  of  it ! 
That  mistake  about  the  medicine  would,  I  knew, 
plunge  you  in  agonies  of  contrition.  You  cannot 
forgive  yourself.  You  are  not  just  sure  how  it  happens 
that  your  fault  is  so  black,  but  you  are  no  less  confident 
of  its  blackness." 

His  playful  satire,  so  completely  unsuspicious  of  the 
real  truth,  had  by  this  time  become  apparent  to  his 
listener.  He  had  thought  manifold  thoughts  regard- 
ing Olivia  Delaplaine  since  their  separation,  and  among 
these  could  conspicuously  be  placed  the  deduction  that 
she  was  the  victim  of  an  excessively  tender  conscience. 
In  referring  to  the  matter  of  the  draught  of  aconite, 
he  merely  mentioned  what  had  of  course  become  a 
theme  for  current  discussion  during  at  least  two  or 
three  weeks  after  Delaplaine's  death.  Olivia  felt  that 
he  was  indeed  carelessly  laying  his  hands  upon  wounds 
which  the  least  rough  touch  might  make  betrayingly 
bleed.  She  managed  to  speak  with  a  fair  amount  of 
quietude  as  she  said : 

"  I  suppose  that  the  story  of  the  medicine  got  about 
everywhere.  .  .  .  Did  they  say  ill-natured  things  of 

mo?" 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  455 

"None  that  I  heard."  He  laughed.  "What  could 
they  say  except  the  merest  Mtises  ?  " 

"  Even  those  are  waspish,  now  and  then  ;  they  carry 
stings." 

"Only  for  very  sensitive  persons.  .  .  .  But  you 
have  a  right  to  be  sensitive  —  to  have  a  hundred 
trifles  'give  you  some  nerves,'  as  I  once  heard  a 
Frenchman  say  while  he  floundered  in  English.  You 
have  been  through  untold  trials.  But  now  all  that  is 
past.  Your  liberty  has  come  again.  You  are  still 
younger  than  many  a  girl  who  has  not  yet  thought 
much  about  marriage.  Everything  should  point  to 
your  perfect  happiness,  and  no  one  hopes  for  it  with 
greater  sincerity  than  I  do  !  " 

He  was  the  Massereene  of  old  to  her  while  he  thus 
spoke;  she  surrendered  herself  to  the  rich  sweetness 
of  his  voice  and  let  herself  enjoy  the  candid  sparkle  of 
his  gaze.  .  .  .  Then,  abruptly,  came  the  chilling  rec- 
ollection of  that  "  set  gray  life  and  apathetic  end " 
with  which  she  had  resolved  that  her  future  should  be 
unalterably  associated. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said,  in  tones  grave  enough 
thoroughly  to  suit  the  mourning  attire  which  he  had 
expected  to  see  her  wear,  and  yet  which  had  seemed 
to  keep  her  unduly  removed  from  him  ever  since  they 
had  met  this  afternoon.  "  I  begin  to  think  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  happiness  in  the  sense  you  evidently 
mean.  But  I  hope  to  secure  the  contentment  that 
comes  of  charitable  work  toward  my  fellow-creatures. 
In  this  way  I  shall  achieve  that  self-forgetfulness 
which  is,  after  all,  perhaps,  the  one  most  desirable 
aim.  .  .  .  My  life  is  to  be  a  busy  and  yet  a  very 
quiet  one.  I  shall  quite  give  up  the  world.  Poor 


456  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

dear  Aunt  Thyrza  will  be  about  the  only  friend  whom 
I  shall  retain  —  though  for  that  matter,  I  was  without 
friends  here  when  I  came  back  from  Europe  for  the 
last  time,  and " 

"You  have  made  none  since! "  broke  in  Massereene. 
His  brow  had  clouded  botli  perplexedly  and  angrily. 
".Tam  doubtless  not  your  friend!  You  wish  to  toss 
me  aside  —  you  have  done  with  me  !  " 

"I  —  I  did  not  say  that,"  answered  Olivia,  sitting 
pale  before  him,  with  drooped  eyes. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  But  you  meant  it  —  you 
wanted  to  convey  that  meaning.  You  came  down  to 
meet  ine  with  the  fixed  intention  of  sending  me  away 
from  you,  if  you  could  do  so  in  a  peaceable  way,  for- 
ever. .  .  .  You,  at  your  age,  and  after  the  dog's  life 
that  Delaplaine  led  you,  to  talk  of  '  that  self-forgetful- 
ness  which  is  the  one  most  desirable  aim.'  Good 
heavens,  woman  !  you  have  your  life  to  live,  health- 
fully and  sensibly  !  No  one  objects  to  your  being  as 
charitable  as  you  please.  Give  thousands  to  the  poor, 
if  you  like.  But  an  ascetic  —  you  !  The  very  idea  is 
preposterous !  .  .  .  There,"  he  ended,  half  turning 
away,  "  I  have  incensed  you ;  I  see  it  in  your 
face." 

"You  have  not  incensed  me,"  Olivia  replied.  "But 
you  have  not  changed  my  resolution  of  wholly  forsak- 
ing the  world  —  or  at  least  that  part  of  it  called 
society.  I  can't  fully  explain  to  you  my  determin- 
ation. But  it  exists  —  it  exists  unchangeably ;  and 
if  you  neither  approve  it  nor  respect  it,  you  can  still 
recognize  its  permanence." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her,  and  she  saw  him  bow 
his  head ;  but  in  another  minute  he  had  faced  her  once 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  457 

more ;  and  with  tones  through  which  vibrated  an  un- 
mistakable despair,  he  cried  : 

"  I  love  you  !     I  want  you  to  be  my  wife  !  " 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  rising  and  moving  away  from 
him. 

But  he  hurried  close  to  her,  then.  "  I  can't  give 
you  up  like  this  —  I  can't  and  I  won't !  There  is  no 
reason  why  I  should,  unless  you  care  nothing  for  me. 
Tell  me  on  your  word  of  honor  that  you  do  care 
nothing ! " 

"  I  —  I  care  for  that  other  life,"  she  faltered.  "  I 
do  not  mean  that  it  shall  be  the  life  of  an  ascetic. 
But  I  am  resolved  to  live  it,  and  I  have  no  other 
answer  than  this." 

"  And  this  is  no  answer  !  At  least,  it  is  none  if  you 
love  me.  When,  before  his  death,  you  forbade  me 
even  to  know  you,  and  wrote  me  that  most  repelling 
of  letters,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  would  bide  my  time 
—  that  I  would  wait  until  that  dead  wall  of  circum- 
stance no  longer  lifted  its  hard,  chill  bulk  between  us. 
I  have  waited,  and  now  you  inflict  upon  me  this  cruel 
sorrow  without  the  least  rational  cause  !  " 

Olivia  felt  herself  begin  to  tremble.  She  slipped 
toward  the  door,  which  chanced  not  to  be  far  away. 
"  I  gave  you  no  cause,  in  those  other  days,"  she  said, 
"  to  believe  that  I  ever  meant  to  become  your  wife." 

"  I  thought  then  that  you  loved  me.  I  think  still 
that  you  love  me.  This  should  be  cause  enough, 
surely !  " 

"  But  —  if  you  were  wrong  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
sort  of  haughty  exasperation.  "If  you  were  wrong 
then,  and  if  you  are  wrong  now  ?  " 

He  took  several  steps  in  her  direction.     His  eyes 


458  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

were  glowing  —  the  eyes  that  she  loved,  that  she  had 
seen  gazing  at  her  through  the  mist  of  a  hundred 
dreams,  that  had  nearly  always  made  her  heart  beat 
quicker  if  she  had  looked  into  them  deeply  or  without 
warning. 

"I  am  not  wrong,  Olivia,"  he  said.  "Your  soul 
tells  you  that.  .  .  .  Don't  let  any  mad  fancy,  caprice, 
theory,  come  between  us.  The  stars  in  their  courses 
should  be  with  two  hearts  that  love  as  ours  do."  He 
stretched  out  his  arms  and  opened  them. 

For  one  swift  instant  she  longed  to  bound  toward 
him  —  to  lay  her  head  on  his  breast  —  to  tell  him 
everything  —  to  accept  the  forgiveness  that  he  was 
certain  of  extending  her,  and  to  let  such  forgiveness 
stand  in  the  place  of  what  she  would  have  called 
God's. 

But  her  longing  died  under  the  stress  of  another ; 
it  was  one  that  she  held  to  be  far  holier  and  higher. 
She  receded  to  the  very  threshold  of  the  room,  all  the 
while  looking  straight  at  Massereene. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  without  a  quiver  in  her  voice, 
"that  we  shall  never  see  one  another  again  on  this 
earth.  I  hope  it  most  earnestly,  devoutly.  I  may 
write  you  —  I  am  not  sure.  But  if  I  do  not,  take  my 
good-bye  now  and  here."  Then  she  saw  his  face 
through  her  rushing  tears,  and  as  it  seemed  to  come 
nearer,  she  turned,  hastening  from  the  room. 

"  Olivia !  "  she  heard  him  cry.  .  .  .  For  days  after- 
ward that  sound  echoed  through  her  reveries,  and  now 
and  then  she  would  tell  herself  that  it  must  so 
echo  until  the  one  last  silence  made  it  forever 
cease. 

But  for  two  or  three  hours  after  disappearing  from 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  459 

the  presence  of  Massereene,  she  remained  in  the  most 
supplicatory  and  entranced  mood  of  prayer.  She 
poured  forth  thanks  to  God  for  having  enabled  her  to 
resist  the  happiness  offered  her  in  place  of  that  life- 
long expiation  by  which  she  could  at  least  partially 
annul  the  atrocity  of  her  sin.  She  prayed  for  strength, 
hereafter  to  discipline  every  desire  which  bore  upon 
self-gratification  ;  and  having  thus  prayed  for  strength, 
she  arose,  like  the  majority  of  those  whom  an  ecstasy 
of  personal  prostration  and  abasement  has  intoxicated, 
believing  that  she  was  already  vastly  stronger. 

But  she  met  with  no  further  temptation  from  Jas- 
per Massereene.  In  about  three  weeks'  time  she 
learned  through  the  Satterthwaites  that  he  contem- 
plated recrossing  the  ocean  .  .  . 

Spencer  Delaplaine's  will  had  required  that  his 
widow's  share  of  the  banking-business  should,  as 
soon  as  possible,  become  completely  null.  Her  for- 
tune was  to  be  withdrawn  from  the  house,  and  sub- 
sequently re-invested  elsewhere.  All  such  operations 
as  these  took  time,  and  were  attended  with  not  a  few 
legal  complications  as  well.  Olivia  had  many  a  prosy 
term  of  converse  to  undergo,  and  some  of  the  proceed- 
ings explained  to  her  were  by  no  means  as  lucid  after 
explanation  as  she  might  have  wished.  Suddenly, 
one  day,  the  thought  of  Adrian  Etherege  flashed 
through  her  mind.  How  materially  he  could  have 
aided  her  in  the  clearer  understanding  of  these  per- 
plexing details !  And  why  had  she  not  remembered 
him  before  ? 

The  truth  was,  she  had  absolutely  forgotten  him 
for  weeks.  "  How  ungrateful  of  me  !  "  she  reflected. 
"  And  after  he  defended  me  so  bravely  at  Greenacre 


460  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

that  evening !  He  must  have  felt  bitterly  toward  me 
all  this  time.  No  doubt  he  has  been  waiting  for  me 
to  summon  him.  What  harm  can  there  be  in  my 
doing  so  at  once?" 

Still,  she  feared  the  questions  he  might  ask  her 
regarding  that  fateful  night.  Massereene's  reference 
to  it  had  caused  her  many  a  memorial  shudder. 
What  if  Adrian  had  refrained  from  seeking  her  again 
because  he  suspected  her  of  greater  guilt  than  that 
with  which  she  already  charged  her  own  unhappy  self? 

A  few  hours  later  one  of  the  employees  at  the  Bank 

—  a  gentleman  with  whom  she  had  already  held  more 
than    a   single   rather    wearisome   parley  —  presented 
himself  at  her  house.      After  not  a  little  hesitation, 
she  made  up  her  mind  to  inquire  concerning  Adrian. 

"Etherege?"  was  the  reply.  "Oh,  we  have  not 
seen  him  at  the  Bank  for  certainly  six  weeks.  They 
say  he  is  quite  ill.  I  don't  know  what  the  trouble  is. 
We  have  paid  him  his  salary  as  usual.  Once  or 
twice  his  mother — a  tall,  solemn-faced,  elderly  lady 

—  has  appeared  and  received  the  money  in  pei-son.     I 
myself  had  no  conversation  with  her,  but  I  believe  she 
said  her  son  was  seriously  ill  with  a  fever.     Several  of 
the   clerks   called   at   Etherege's   house,  but   I  don't 
think  any  of  them  succeeded  in  seeing  him.      Mrs. 
Etherege  always   received   the  visitors,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,   and    gave   them   the   same   answer  —  that 
,her  son  was  too  ill  to  have  any  one  enter  his  room. 
.  .  .  I've  no  idea  how  his  sickness  will  terminate,  but 
it  is  beginning  to  be  whispered,  down  at  the  Bank, 
that  he  is  in  a  very  dangerous  condition.     You  knew 
him  well,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Delaplaine,  when  your  hus- 
band was  alive?" 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  461 

"Yes,"  Olivia  said.  "I  knew  him  very  well.  His 
illness  is  a  great  surprise  to  me  —  and  a  shock  also. 
Can  you  give  me  his  address?" 

"I  can  have  it  sent  to  you,"  came  the  answer. 

"  Please  do  so,  then,  immediately." 

On  the  following  day  Olivia  received  the  address. 
It  was  considerably  up-town,  in  one  of  the  easterly 
side-streets,  not  far  from  Second  Avenue.  That  after- 
noon she  had  herself  driven  there  in  her  own  private 
carnage. 

She  felt  convinced  that  the  woman  whom  she  would 
now  most  probably  meet  was  the  same  whom  she  had 
seen  for  a  brief  minute  or  two  at  the  head  of  the  stair- 
way on  a  certain  afternoon,  not  very  long  ago,  while 
Delaplaine's  curt  words  of  dismissal  had  rung  out 
with  such  astonishing  harshness.  And  this  woman  — • 
the  mother  of  Adrian  —  had  no  doubt  once  been  the 
mistress  of  Delaplaine.  All  indications,  as  presented 
by  Adrian  himself,  had  tended  toward  such  a  belief 
on  Olivia's  part.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  seek  her 
friend  with  the  prospect  of  being  accosted  by  Mrs. 
Etherege  at  the  very  outset  of  the  search.  Still,  the 
gloomy  character  of  the  tidings  Olivia  had  heard  left 
her  no  alternative.  In  the  way  of  sacrificing  her  own 
inclinations  or  prejudices,  much  more  than  she  now 
contemplated  doing  would  have  cheerfully  enough 
been  undertaken  by  her  for  reasons  like  the  present, 

The  house  at  which  her  carriage  finally  drew  up 
was  one  of  those  small,  third-rate  red-brick  buildings 
that  contribute  so  multitudmously  toward  the  re< 
nowned  ugliness  of  the  metropolis.  Here  dwelt  Mrs. 
Etherege,  renting  the  house  and  sub-renting  all  floors 
of  it  but  one.  This  was  the  first,  or  "  parlor "  floor, 


462  OLIVIA  DELAPLA1NE. 

and  in  its  front  apartment  she  received  Olivia,  amid 
surroundings  of  a  shabby-genteel  quality.  Effects 
here  and  there  suggested  the  taste  or  influence  of 
Adrian  ;  but  the  ensemble  was  in  the  main  both  dreary 
and  threadbare. 

Mrs.  Etherege  looked  indisputably  the  first  if  not 
the  last.  Olivia  recognized  her  at  once.  And  the 
solemn  lines  on  her  worn  face  did  not  grow  a  grade 
more  cheerful  after  she  had  been  told  her  visitor's 
name.  Indeed,  Olivia  noticed  the  lines  about  her 
mouth  tighten  ominously  as  she  said  : 

"You  called,  ma'am,  to  inquire  about  my  son  ?  " 

"I  called  to  see  him,  if  I  could.  I  hope  he  is  well 
enough  to  see  me.  I —  " 

"  He  never  sees  anybody,"  was  the  interruption, 
hard  as  a  blow. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Olivia,  sweetly.  "Is  he 
then  so  exceedingly  ill  ?  " 

"Yes.     He's  pretty  sick." 

"Dangerously,  do  you  mean?" 

"  Yes." 

"Will  you  let  me  ask  you  what  his  trouble  is? "  - 

Mrs.  Etherege  did  not  seem  at  all  disposed  to  tell. 
She  was  occupying  a  straight-backed  chair  in  front  of 
the  easier  one  into  which  Olivia  had  sunk.  She  had 
drooped  her  eyes  and  was  scanning  the  carpet  with 
them.  It  appeared  quite  possible  to  Olivia  that  she 
might  raise  them  any  minute,  and  show  them  glitter- 
ing with  most  inhospitable  beams.  It  was  evident 
that  the  woman  did  not  like  her  boldness  in  coming/ 
thither,  but  also  that  she  had  motives  for  not  making 
this  disapproval  too  palpable.  Meanwhile,  notwith- 
standing the  grimness  and  bleakness  of  her  visage, 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  463 

Olivia  could  detect  in  it  a  strong  though  covert  resem- 

o  o 

blance  to  Adrian's ;  one  might  almost  have  said  that 
its  beauty  had  become  insultingly  flouted  by  trouble 
and  disappointment  —  two  as  malevolent  vitriol- 
throwers,  in  their  way,  as  any  that  ever  prowled. 

"  He's  affected  strangely,"  she  at  length  said,  raising 
her  eyes.  "He  had  typhoid.  But  that's  gone  now, 
and  he's  .  .  .  well,  he's  very  weak."  All  expression 
of  animosity  died  on  a  sudden  from  her  face,  and  one 
of  excessive  worriment  succeeded  it.  "  I'm  very  often 
afraid  he's  going  crazy  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Ah !  how  dreadful !  "  Olivia  cried.  "  But  perhaps 
it's  only  the  result  of  the  fever.  It  may  wear  off  when 
he  gets  back  his  physical  strength.  Such  cases  are 
happening  all  the  time." 

Nothing  could  have  sounded  more  spontaneous, 
more  sympathetic,  than  these  words  of  the  visitor's, 
uttered  in  her  dulcet  voice  and  with  softly  sparkling 
eyes.  They  perceptibly  softened  Mrs.  Etherege,  who 
gazed  long  and  earnestly  at  her  companion,  and  then 
said  : 

•"Adrian's  mind  is  in  a  very  curious  state.  He  lies 
without  speaking,  for  hours.  Then  he'll  begin  to 
murmur  to  himself  in  a  most  incoherent  manner.  It 
seems  as  if  he  were  hiding  something  from  me  —  some- 
thing that  he's  heard  or  done  in  former  days  —  and 
yet  as  if  this  were  preying  so  on  his  mind  that  he 
must  sooner  or  later  disclose  it.  ...  He's  often  spoken 
of  you,  ma'am.  .  .  ." 

"  Of  me  !  "  exclaimed  Olivia,  a  pang  of  self-reproach 
passing  through  her  heart. 

"...  And  I  must  acknowledge  that  lately,"  pur- 
sued Mrs.  Etherege,  as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind 


464  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

to  have  it  all  out  while  her  own  propitious  mood  lasted, 
"  he's  been  begging  that  I  would  send  for  you." 

"And  why  did  you  not?  " 

Mrs.  Etherege  began  to  gnaw  her  lips.  "Well," 
she  said,  "  there  were  reasons.  Mr.  Delaplaine,  as  you 
know,  was  very  good  to  Adrian.  For  quite  a  while 
he  almost  adopted  him.  There  was  nothing  very  re- 
markable in  his  doing  so.  Adrian  was  a  handsome 
boy,  and  I  ...  er  ...  I  was  a  relation  of  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine's.  I  don't  know  if  he  has  ever  mentioned  this 
fact  to  you  or  not." 

"No,"  said  Olivia,  "my  husband  never  mentioned 
it  to  me.  At  least,  not  that  I  recollect."  She  had 
become  somehow  most  promptly  convinced  that  Mrs. 
Etherege's  latter  statement  was  a  premeditated  false- 
hood. All  in  all,  however,  she  was  rather  glad  that 
this  coolly  audacious  way  had  been  adopted  of  dealing 
with  the  whole  awkward  and  unsavory  subject.  If 
Adrian's  mother  had  ever  sought  to  convince  Dela- 
plaine that  he  was  the  father  of  her  son,  she  must  sig- 
nally have  failed  after  the  lad  reached  any  appreciable 
age,  since  he  bore  no  vaguest  trace  of  such  fatherhood. 
Whatever  Delaplaine  had  subsequently  done  for  Adrian 
must  either  have  been  prompted  by  some  lingering 
shadow  of  sentiment  for  his  mother  (which,  as  Olivia 
had  seen,  that  lady  was  inclined  too  daringly  to  count 
upon),  or  by  the  mingled  comeliness  and  capability 
which  the  boy  himself  presented. 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Etherege,  with  a 
slow,  decisive  nod  at  Olivia.  "I'm  surprised  he 
didn't  speak  of  the  relationship.  Adrian  knew 
nothing  about  it ;  I  never  told  him."  Here  she 
coughed,  as  though  to  give  herself  time  for  fresh 


OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE.  4G5 

inventions.  "  I  thought  he  might  refer  to  it  on  some 
occasion  when  Mr.  Delaplaine  was  not  in  the  best  of 
humors  —  you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,"  acceded  Olivia  mechanically.  She  thought 
she  understood  very  well  indeed. 

"  Now  I  was  more  than  astonished,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Etherege,  "  I  was  grieved  when  I  heard  that  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine  had  not  even  remembered  me  by  as  much  as  a 
small  legacy."  She  paused,  and  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  Olivia  wondered  whether,  during  these  few  min- 
utes of  intercourse,  she  could  not  read  her  character 
somewhat  clearly.  Was  she  not  a  woman  who  had 
started  life  on  a  large  stock  of  good  looks  and  a  mod- 
erate amount  of  principle,  and  who,  having  found  the 
resources  of  both  insufficient  to  keep  her  prosperously 
afloat,  had  luixed  herself  up  in  a  hundred  petty  dupli- 
cities, remaining  now,  at  a  rather  advanced  age,  wholly 
dissatisfied  with  the  successful  diplomacy  of  any  ? 

"  If,  as  you  tell  me,  you  are  a  relation  of  Mr.  Dela- 
plaine's,"  Olivia  at  once  answered,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to 
make  some  amends  for  my  husband's  neglect."  She 
said  this,  thinking  of  Adrian,  and  hoping  that  she 
could  thus  turn  a  little  golden  key  in  the  doorway  of 
obstruction  between  himself  and  her. 

Mrs.  Etherege  smiled,  and  the  smile  seemed  to  as- 
tonish her  sombre,  fade  face;  you  might  have  fancied 
that  certain  little  muscles  used  in  the  process  had 
grown  stiff  from  lack  of  exercise. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am  —  thank  you  very  much. 
We're  not  in  the  best  of  circumstances,  and  one  or  two 
of  my  boarders  think  of  leaving  me.  If  Adrian's  sal- 
ary at  the  Bank  should  be  stopped,  it  would  be  very 
hard  on  us.  The  truth  is,  as  I  can  tell  you^  my  up- 


466  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

stairs  drainage  isn't  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  people 
don't  stay  with  me  long,  even  if  they  come.  But  I've 
a  three-years'  lease  of  the  house,  so  I  tmist  stay  here 
and  try  to  make  both  ends  meet." 

"Well,"  said  Olivia,  smiling,  "I  will  help  you  to  do 
that.  Trust  me."  She  was  anxious  to  see  Adrian  at 
once,  and  would  have  made  almost  any  kind  of  prom- 
ise, just  then,  in  order  to  secure  his  mother's  good 
wilt 

"  It  was  because  I  felt  so  hurt  about  Mr.  Delaplaine's 
forgetting  me  altogether,"  now  pursued  this  lady, 
"that  I  —  well,  I  didn't  think  it  was  best  to  send  for 
you,  no  matter  how  hard  Adrian  begged." 

"And  he  did  beg  hard?"  exclaimed  Olivia.  "Ah, 
I  hope  you  would  have  relented  soon  and  sent  for 
me!" 

"Well,  I  dare  say  I  would,"  she  replied,  looking 
down  with  an  uneasy  roll  of  the  eyeball ;  and  her 
hearer  almost  concluded  that  she  would  have  been 
cruel  enough  to  delay  the  summons  perhaps  many 
days. 

But  Olivia  now  made  an  eager  request  to  see  Adrian. 
Mrs.  Etherege  presently  rose  and  left  the  room,  after 
saying  that  she  would  ascertain  if  such  a  plan  were 
feasible.  Her  return  was  awaited  most  impatiently. 
But  not  until  twenty  good  minutes  afterward  did  she 
again  appear. 

"He  is  very  weak  to-day,"  she  said.  " I  had  to  tell 
him  in  the  most  cautious  way  that  you  were  here." 

"And  it  gratified  him  to  know?"  asked  Olivia. 

"It  —  shocked  him.  He's  in  a  state  when  so  little 
will  shock  him.  But  he  seems  very  glad  now.  He 
is  waiting  to  see  you  with  a  kind  of  new  look  in  his 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  467 

face.  .  .  .  Please  do  not  let  him  excite  himself  any 
more  than  you  can  help." 

"  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  soothe,  to  quiet  him," 
Olivia  answered. 

"  Very  well.  He  wants  me  to  leave  you  alone  with 
him  for  a  half  arr  hour.  .  .  .  That  is  rather  a  long 
time,  considering  how  ill  he  is.  ...  But  I  shall  be 
within  call,  if  you  should  want  me.  It's  only  two 
rocms  off.  Will  you  come  with  me  now?" 

Olivia  rose,  following  Mrs.  Etherege.  Very  soon, 
after  that,  she  was  standing  in  a  neat,  plainly-appointed 
room,  near  the  bedside  of  Adrian. 


468  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 


XXV. 

His  face,  as  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  it,  sent  a  thrill 
of  horror  through  her  nerves.  Its  beauty  of  contour 
and  proportion  was  not  so  altered  that  she  could  not 
recognize  it  at  once ;  and  yet  the  change,  the  pallor,  the 
attenuation !  .  .  .  Olivia  did  her  best  to  conceal  a 
visible  tremor,  and  succeeded.  She  went  nearer  to 
the  bed  and  took  the  hand  that  Adrian  stretched  out 
to  her.  Its  clasp  was  burningly  feverish.  His  exqui- 
site brown  eyes  seemed  to  devour  her  face  as  she 
paused  close  beside  him. 

"Leave  me  here  with  Mrs.  Delaplaine,  mother,"  he 
said,  suddenly  making  this  appeal.  "  Remember  your 
agreement." 

"  Yes,  Adrian,"  was  the  reply.  Without  another 
word  Mrs.  Etherege  passed  from  the  room. 

There  was  a  chair  quite  near  Olivia.  She  took  it, 
and  then,  amid  the  silence  that  ensued  after  Adrian's 
mother  had  departed,  she  said,  with  her  voice  full  of 
the  tenderest  solicitude : 

"I  had  no  idea  until  yesterday  that  you  were  ill." 

"No?"  he  responded.  His  eyes  dwelt  upon  hers 
as  though  some  fascination  compelled  the  searching 
intensity  of  their  survey.  "  I  wanted  mother  to  send 
for  you ;  I  wanted  it  so  much  !  But  she  kept  putting 
me  off.  At  length  I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  a  certain 
thing,  for  I  had  lost  all  patience,  and  I  suspected  that 
she  was  deceiving  me  with  false  promises.  If  she  did 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  469 

not  send  for  you  this  very  day  I  had  determined  to 
give  her  a  fright  —  for  she  loves  me,  notwithstanding 
her  tame  and  gloomy  way  of  showing  it." 

"  A  fright,  Adrian  ?"  asked  Olivia.    "  You  mean  — ?" 

"I'd  have  told  her  the  blunt  truth  —  that  I'm  dying, 
and  that  if  she  kept  us  apart  any  further  length  of 
time  she  would  be  merely  hastening  the  end  for  me." 

"No,  no,  no,"  Olivia  murmured.  "You  cannot 
mean  that,  Adrian ! "  She  laughed  as  cheerily  as  she 
could,  though  her  heart  had  begun  to  beat  in  a  sicken- 
ing way. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true.  I  made  the  doctor  tell  me  yester- 
day. He  is  a  clever  man,  Dr.  Wallace ;  he  saw  that 
I  was  in  earnest,  and  that  no  prevarication  would 
avail  with  me.  Mother  thinks  that  because  my  mind 
wanders,  now  and  then,  while  I'm  lying  here  as  weak 
as  a  little  child,  it's  my  brain.  But  it  is  not.  It's  my 
heart.  Dr.  Wallace  says  so.  Theie's  no  hope  for  me ; 
it's  what  they  call  an  atrophy,  a  wasting  away.  It 
followed  the  fever;  I  had  typhoid,  you  know,  for 
months.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  strange  that  I  should  die  from 
that?  —  a  heart  that  is  starving  !  I  used  to  feel  as  if 
my  heart  were  starving  when  I  looked  at  you  in  those 
other  days." 

"  Oh,  Adrian  !  "  Olivia  faltered,  drooping  her  head. 

"  I  did.  But  all  that  is  past,  now.  I  had  resolved 
not  to  speak  of  it  when  you  came.  You  knew  that  I 
loved  you.  It  was  torture  for  me  to  see  him  treat  you 
as  he  did.  I  shall  never  forget  that  last  evening  at 
dinner.  When  I  left  you,  a  little  later,  after  you  had 
fainted,  you  believed  (did  you  not?)  that  I  had  left 
for  town?" 

"  Yes." 


470  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"It  was  not  true.  I  staid  in  the  village  all  the  next 
day.  The  next  night  I  went  back  to  Greenacre.  My 
thoughts  all  day  had  been  horrible.  It  seemed  to  me 
at  times  as  if  your  very  life  were  in  peril  from  him. 
As  I  said,  the  next  night  I  went  back  to  Greenacre." 

He  appeared  purposely  to  emphasize  that  last  iter- 
ated sentence.  He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  —  almost  too 
low  for  his  mother,  if  she  had  chosen  the  part  of  eaves- 
dropper, to  have  heard  him.  Speaking  doubtless  fa- 
tigued him,  and  at  times  a  glassy  light  would  replace 
the  richer  and  sweeter  lustre  of  his  eyes.  He  was  too 
sick  a  man  to  talk  as  much  as  this.  Olivia  was  about 
to  tell  him  so,  and  gently  bid  him  to  exert  himself 
less,  when  his  repetition  of  those  words,  "  the  next 
night  I  went  back  to  Greenacre,"  somehow  made  her 
forget  her  designed  injunction. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  went  there  and  asked  for 
me?"  she  inquired. 

Adrian  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  a  smile  of 
the  most  ironical  sadness  broke  from  his  lips  and 
slowly  faded  there. 

"No;  I  did  not  ask  for  you.  I  asked  for  no  one, 
It  was  some  time  after  dark.  The  night  was  very 
warm,  as  you  perhaps  remember." 

"  I  do  remember,"  Olivia  said,  with  a  slight  inward 
thrill. 

"  The  front  doors  were  open  ;  the  light  from  the 
hall  shone  out  across  the  piazza  upon  the  lawn,  where 
jt  joined  the  full,  splendid  moonlight.  I  did  not  know 
of  Delaplaine's  illness,  but  I  felt  sure  I  would  not 
encounter  him,  as  a  closer  view  of  the  piazza  told  me 
he  was  not  there,  and  I  had  observed  that  since  his 
state  had  become  so  enfeebled  he  moved  about  very 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  471 

little.  But  I  believed  that  I  might  see  you,  and  I 
wanted  very  much  to  see  you.  I  had  been  racked  by 
the  most  forcible  pity  for  you.  I  longed  to  press  your 
hand  in  farewell,  and  assure  you  that  if  you  needed 
my  presence  hereafter  you  had  only  to  telegraph  me 
and  I  would  obey  the  call  without  an  instant  of  delay. 
.  .  .  All  looked  lonely  and  deserted  as  I  ascended  the 
piazza.  If  I  had  met  a  servant  I  would  have  sent  a 
message  to  you.  But  even  after  passing  into  the  hall 
I  met  no  one  whatever.  Then  the  idea  occuri'ed  to 
me  of  going  upstairs  to  your  sitting-room.  Perhaps 
you  would  be  there  alone,  and  on  such  a  warm  night 
your  door  might  be  open.  That  would  be  better,  I 
speedily  decided,  than  to  ring  the  bell  for  a  servant 
and  send  up  my  name  to  you,  thus  risking  the  fact  of 
my  presence  being  made  known  to  him.  .  .  .  Well,  so 
I  mounted  the  stairs  and  soon  found  myself  in  the 
upper  hall.  As  I  passed  your  husband's  bed-room  the 
door  was  slightly  ajar.  You  were  speaking  with  an 
attendant,  and  before  I  had  realized  it  I  had  heard  all 
you  said  and  all  she  said.  I  even  caught  a  glimpse, 
too,  of  the  man  who  lay  there,  and  understood  clearly 
that  he  must  be  very  ill.  .  .  .  The  woman  soon  left 
the  room,  and  by  the  time  that  she  had  done  so,  going 
straight  upstairs,  I  had  withdrawn  into  a  corner  of  the 
dim-lit  hall.  If  she  had  turned  and  discovered  me,  I 
suppose  she  would  have  screamed  and  taken  me  for  a 
robber  .  .  .  and  then  I  should  not  have  done  the 
thing  that  freed  you  from  him  forever." 

"What  thing?"  questioned  Olivia,  with  her  breath 
coining  in  gasps.  A  terror  had  begun  to  creep  icily 
through  her  veins,  but  it  was  a  terror  somehow  mixed 
with  wild  gladness. 


472  OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  he  answered.  "You  went  out 
of  the  room,  and  I  was  going  to  follow  along  the  hall 
and  enter  the  other  room  where  you  were.  But  some- 
thing held  me  back.  I  was  thinking  of  the  poison  in 
that  glass ;  I  was  thinking  of  how  it  could  rid  you  of 
him  forever." 

"Adrian!" 

"Presently  he  called  you.  You  went  in  to  him 
again.  I  heard  those  horrible  words  he  spoke  to  you 
about  wanting  to  have  you  die  when  he  died.  I  was 
on  the  verge  of  rushing  in  when  he  grasped  your  hand 
like  that;  but  I  stood  still  outside  there,  instead,  and 
felt  my  hate  of  him  and  my  compassion  for  you  mingle 
and  surge  through  my  veins.  .  .  .  Then  he  spoke  of 
his  thirst  and  of  how  he  wanted  a  glassful  of  water  as 
large  as  that  of  the  medicine  you  were  giving  him. 
You  told  him  it  was  a  deadly  poison,  and  after  he  had 
taken  a  spoonful  of  it  you  left  the  glass  on  the  table 
at  his  side,  because  you  were  most  probably  agitated  by 
those  other  words  of  his,  warning  you  not  to  be  too  sure 
that  he  would  die,  after  all  —  you  who  would  not  have 
retarded  his  detestable  life  by  one  second  for  all  the 
wealth  of  all  the  world !  .  .  .  Then  he  told  you  to  turn 
down  the  light,  and  you  did,  and  left  him.  .  .  .  And 
then  my  mind  was  made  up,  and  I  waited  my  chance." 

"Your  chance?" 

"It  came  almost  at  once.  He  said,  presently,  in  a 
husky  voice,  which  you  were  too  far  off  to  heai*,  '  Oh, 
how  thirsty  I  am  ! '  .  .  .  And  then  I  did  not  wait  any 
longer.  I  went  into  the  dark  room,  softly,  on  tiptoe. 
He  did  not  see  me  enter.  I  glided  up  toward  the  head 
of  the  bed,  too  much  beyond  him  for  him  to  have  seen 
me,  even  if  the  room  had  not  been  in  such  thick 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  473 

shadow.  I  readied  for  the  glass  on  the  little  table. 
*  Here's  water,'  I  said,  and  the  voice  I  spoke  in  startled 
me;  it  was  very  faint,  but  it  was  so  shrewd  a  copy  of 
just  the  way  you  would  have  spoken  those  two  words. 
He  put  out  his  hand  in  the  gloom,  and  I  gave  him  the 
glass.  I  heard  him  begin  to  drink,  with  the  sound  a 
very  thirsty  child  might  give.  .  .  .  And  then  I  did  not 
stop  even  to  see  if  he  would  put  the  glass  back  on  the 
table  or  let  it  fall.  ...  I  shot  away,  and  no  one  sa\v 
me  dart  downstairs  and  hurry  out  upon  the  lawn  again. 
The  news  of  his  death  came  to  me  here  in  town.  .  .  . 
I  dare  say  the  illness  would  have  attacked  me  anyway. 
...  I  don't  know.  But  I  began  to  suffer  fearfully  for 
what  I  had  done,  and  —  and  when  the  news  also 
reached  me  that  you  had  admitted  his  death  was 
owing  to  your  own  carelessness  in  leaving  the  medi- 
cine so  near  him,  I  had  a  sick  sort  of  dread  lest  you 
might — might  be  reproaching  yourself  with  —  the  — 
thought — " 

These  latter  words  were  broken  painfully,  and  ut- 
tered with  a  difficulty  that  seemed  to  indicate  the 
approach  of  death  itself.  But  extreme  exhaustion, 
not  death,  was  now  at  work  with  Adrian.  In  another 
moment  his  eyes  had  closed,  and  his  ghastly  face, 
turned  a  little  sideways  on  the  pillow,  revealed  his 
complete  loss  of  consciousness.  .  .  . 

Olivia  rose  from  her  chair.  For  a  slight  space  of 
time  she  forgot  even  to  cry  out  and  summon  the  assist- 
ance of  Mrs.  Etherege.  A  single  thought  dominated 
her  being.  She  was  not  guilty,  after  all !  Heavy 
bonds  were  falling  from  her  spirit,  and  as  if  with  the 
audible  noise  of  shattered  chains.  Darkness  was  fly- 
ing away  from  her,  struck  into  a  hundred  cloudy  frag- 


474  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

merits  by  shafts  of  poignant,  enrapturing  sunshine  ! 
"Thank  God!  — thank  God!"  broke  from  her  lips, 
and  as  the  words  escaped  her  she  seemed  to  gaze  upon 
the  very  face  of  Massereene,  as  though  it  had  become 
visible  in  the  flesh  close  at  her  side.  But  she  discerned 
it  through  a  blur  of  besieging  tears;  and  when,  a  little 
later,  she  hurried  to  find  Adrian's  mother,  these  tears 
were  streaming  down  her  cheeks  as  though  the  bitter- 
est grief  and  not  the  most  impassioned  joy  had  caused 
them. 

A  few  hours  later  she  sat  alone  in  her  own  room. 
An  open  letter  lay  before  her,  sheet  after  sheet,  with 
the  ink  scarcely  dry  on  the  last  one.  It  was  to  Mas- 
sereene. It  told  him  everything  —  the  entire  story  of 
her  temptation,  her  self-loathing,  her  renunciation  of 
all  future  individual  delights  —  and  it  confessed  that 
the  love  she  bore  him  was  chief  and  paramount  among 
those  delights.  Then  it  recorded  the  meeting  with 
Adrian  Etherege  and  the  new,  dizzying  revelation  that 
had  come  to  her  from  his  lips. 

"Even  if  I  should  never  see  you  again  —  and  that 
is  now  for  you  to  decide  — "  the  letter  here  went  on, 
"I  implore  you  to  keep  as  an  absolute  secret  what  I 
have  just  written.  But  I  know  your  merciful  heart 
—  and  Adrian  is  a  dying  man !  His  sin  has  been 
terrible;  I  feel  that  I  can  judge  somewhat  of  its 
magnitude  by  the  anguish  that  its  consequences  have 
cost  me.  There  is  no  other  living  soul  except  yourself 
to  whom  I  would  have  told  his  unhappy  story.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  selfish  of  me  to  feel  that  you  must 
know  the  whole  truth  —  that  it  is  only  justice  to  my- 
self for  such  completeness  of  knowledge  to  be  given 


OLIVIA   DELAPLAINE.  475 

you.  ...  As  I  said,  Adrian  Etherege  will  not  live 
long;  you  already  may  read  on  his  face  that  he  is 
doomed.  Explain  it  as  you  will,  but  I  cannot  help  a 
feeling  of  infinite  gratitude  toward  him.  Still,  in  any 
case  I  would  have  promised  his  mother  very  liberal 
help,  both  before  his  death  and  afterward.  .  .  ." 

Olivia  directed  her  letter,  sealed  it,  and  sent  it  to 
the  hotel  at  which  Massereene  always  lived  when  in 
New  York. 

"  Will  he  come  to  me  ?  "  she  asked  herself. 

Massereene,  seated  in  his  own  room  at  the  hotel, 
received  two  letters.  He  took  them  both  carelessly, 
opened  one  and  read  in  it  that  the  particular  state-room 
which  he  desired  on  a  certain  steamer  sailing  a  few 
days  from  then  would  be  reserved  for  him.  .  .  .  Then 
he  glanced  at  the  other  envelope  and  gave  a  great 
start.  His  recognition  of  the  handwriting  set  him  in 

o  o 

a  quiver  of  excitement.  .  .  .  About  fifteen  minutes 
afterward  he  came  downstairs  with  unwonted  speed, 
almost  threw  himself  into  a  cab,  and  gave  orders  to 
be  driven  to  West  Tenth  Street.  .  .  . 

"Foolish  child!"  he  said  to  Olivia,  afer  the  first 
and  almost  silent  ecstasy  of  their  meeting  had  passed ; 
"  why  should  you  not  have  told  me  your  trouble  before, 
when  it  was  tormenting  your  soul  ?  I  would  have  con- 
vinced you  that  your  sin  (no  matter  what  may  have 
been  its  result)  was  far  less  unpardonable  than  you 
believed." 

"  Nothing  could  have  so  convinced  me,"  said  Olivia. 
She  drew  away  from  him  with  a  little  shivei',  though 
his  encircling  arms  would  not  let  her  recede  far.  "  I 
have  misgivings  even  now,"  she  went  on,  "  that  I  am 
absolving  myself  much  too  easily." 


476  OLIVIA  DELAPLAINE. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,  then,  about  absolving  yourself  at 
all,"  smiled  Mnssereerie.  "  Leave  it  all  to  me.  Make 
me  the  keeper  of  your  conscience." 

"  You've  enough  that  is  mine  to  take  care  of 
already,"  said  Olivia,  looking  deep  into  his  eyes  and 
answering  his  smile. 

"I've  your  heart,"  he  said.     "Do  you  mean  that?" 

"Yes." 

He  laughed.  "  Well,  I'll  own  to  the  responsibility, 
my  dearest,  and  not  be  too  ambitious  about  increas- 
ing it." 

Olivia  drew  a  long  sigh.  "Responsibility?"  she 
murmured.  "  My  sense  of  a  great  one  will  never  cease 
while  I  live;  for  I  shall  always  see  reproachful  proofs 
of  my  weakness  in  the  strength  which  ought  to  have 
made  it  self-control." 

"And  I,"  he  replied,  still  playfully,  "shall  always 
hope  for  strength  to  grapple  with  your  hardiest  meta- 
physics, and  repress  them  when  they  take  too  morbid 
an  outlook." 

But  she  shook  her  head  forbiddingly  at  this  lighter 
mood  of  his,  even  while  she  drooped  closer  to  him  and 
let  his  arms  more  fondly  enwrap  her;  for  with  all  her 
ever-to-be-endured  regret,  she  could  not  but  love  the 
levity  that  his  happiness  forced  from  him,  —  and  as 
naturally  as  the  dawn  itself  will  force  a  dewy  glitter 
from  those  grasses  that  its  first  beams  have  bathed ! 


Tfie  Worfcs  of  Eflgai  Fawcett. 

EACH  IN  ONE  VOLUME.    12MO.    PRICE  $1.60. 

Sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price,  by  the  publishers, 

TICKNOR    &    CO.,    BOSTON. 


"He  is  the  novelist  of  New- York  life  and  society;  he  knows  all 
the  eddys  and  currents  of  its  complicated  course,  and  with  faith- 
ful observation  he  has  amassed  a  knowledge  of  its  phases  which 
makes  him  by  far  the  best  interpreter  of  its  many-sided  life.  His 
minute  acquaintance  with  New-York  society  gives  his  back- 
ground a  brilliancy  which  heightens  the  strength  of  the  character- 
drawing  in  his  stories.  No  novelist  of  the  present  day,  except 
Mr.  Howells,  has  so  thorough  a  comprehension  of  the  feminine 
attitude  toward  society  and  life  as  Mr.  Fawcett.  His  books  are 
among  the  best  American  novels  that  we  have.  —  Domestic 
Monthly. 

"  His  observation  is  singularly  keen.  His  judgment  is  generally 
true.  His  sense  of  humor  is  alert.  His  cheerful  temper  savt-s 
him  from  excessive  bitterness.  He  has  imagination  enough  to 
invest  realistic  description  with  the  glow  of  poetry,  and  to  repro- 
duce even  dulness  with  vivacity  and  wit." —  New-York  Tribune. 

"  Few  American  authors  have  won  more  solid  recognition  and 
enduring  fame  than  has  Mr.  Edgar  Fawcett,  poet,  novelist,  and 
playright.  His  works  are  more  widely  known  and  read  than 
those  of  any  of  the  other  younger  novelists;  and  his  vigor  and 
vivacity  of  "thought,  combined  with  unusual  delicacy  of  touch 
and  charm  of  style,  are  recognized  by  the  best  critics  of  literature. 
The  vigor  of  Mr.  Fawcett's  work  is  intellectually  refreshing.  His 
fiction  is  suggestive  as  well  as  interesting,  and  offers  food  for 
thought.  The  keenness  with  which  salient  points  in  life  are 
pictured  makes  it  most  breezy  and  exhilarating  reading. "  — 
Boston  Traveller. 

THE    CONFESSIONS    OF    CLAUD. 

With  engraved  portrait  of  Edgar  Fawcett. 

"  It  possesses  a  weird  sort  of  fascination,  like  Dore's  pictures." 
Chicayo  Journal. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  terrible  power;  it  fascinates  even  when  it  is 
most  disagreeable;  it  has  some  thrilling  descriptions,  and  at 
times  it  reaches  a  high  pitch  of  tragic  intensity.  Mr.  Edgar 
Fawcett  is  known  as  a  novelist  who  believes  in  painting  the  life 
of  his  city  and  his  time,  and  who  finds  in  this  life  the  charm  of 
romance  as  well  as  the  realism  of  bread,  butter,  and  banking. 
His  local  color  is  always  good,  and  always  the  better  that  he 
blends  with  it  the  element  of  the  ideal  —  the 'light  that  never 
was  on  sea  or  land.'  "  — New-York  Tribune. 

TICKNOR    &    CO.,    BOSTON. 


EDGAR    FAWCETT'S    POEMS. 


Each  in  one  volume.    12mo.    Printed  on  Imported  hand-made 
paper,  with  gilt  tops  and  rough  edges. 


ROMANCE   AND    REVERY. 

The   Magic   Flower,  The  Sorceress, 

Christ,  Irony, 

The   Dying  Archangel,  Twenty  Sonnets, 

Sister  Brenda,  And   many  other   Poems. 

" '  Romance  and  Revery '  is  a  volume  of  peculiar  merit. 
Aldrich  alone  can  rival  him  in  daintiness  and  delicacy  of  fancy; 
and  there  is  a  compressed  brilliancy  in  most  that  he  writes,  which 
no  living  writer  can  excel."  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  It  is  a  rich,  strong,  rounded  work,  worthy  of  the  ripened 
powers  of  Fawcett.  Full  of  intellectuality,  sensuous,  alive  with 
the  modern  spirit,  splendid  in  its  music,  masterly  in  its  technique, 
it  is  a  book  to  be  dwelt  in  and  studied  and  loved."—  tit.  John 
Globe. 


SONG    AND    STORY. 

Alan  Eliot,  A  Vengeance, 

The  Republic,  A   Mood   of  Cleopatra, 

Tne  Singing  of  Luigi,  Ideals, 

The  Rivers,  Fifteen   Sonnets,  etc. 

•"Alan  Eliot,'  'A  Mood  of  Cleopatra,'  'A  Vengeance,'  are 
narrative  poems  of  great  force  ami  beauty.  —  The  delicious 
Italian  love  tale,  'The  Singing  of  Luigi.'  "—  Harper's  Mttc/azine. 

>'  When  you  close  this  dainty  volume  with  its  fine  linen  leaves, 
rough  edges,  and  gilt  top,  you  will  carry  away  with  you  in  your 
heart,  perhaps,  the  melody  of  the  'German  Cradle  Song,'  the 
tenderness  of  '  Consolation,'  and  the  beautiful  story  of  '  The 
Singing  of  Luigi.'" — Life. 

*'  A  young  poet,  therefore,  who  is  essentially  an  artist,  reveren- 
cing deeply  his  art,  and  master  of  all  its  technicalities,  should 
attract  our  most  earnest  regard.  Such  a  poet  is  Mr.  Edgar 
Fawcett.  Never  falling  into  the  snare  of  sound  for  sweet  sound's 
sake  only,  his  pregnant  lines  are  nevertheless  harmonious  as 
though  his  sole  aim  were  harmony.  Mr.  Fawcett's  phrases  are 
moulded  with  nicest  skill;  he  makes  them  rich  and  delicious,  tit 
to  be  rolled  under  the  tongue;  but  each  has  a  reason  for  being, 
each  is  vitalized  with  an  idea.  His  poems  are  filled  with  the 
charm  of  suggestiveness;  scarcely  one  but  brings  some  new 
thought,  some  strange  analogy  to  haunt  the  brain  after  reading 
it."  —  ROBERT  ELLIOTT,  in  T/ie  Current. 

TICKNOR    &    CO.,    BOSTON. 


EDGAR     FAWCETT'S    WORKS. 


ADVENTURES    OF    A    WIDOW. 

"  The  novel  is  abundant  in  breezy  vivacity,  and  in  its  every 
aspect  shows  the  hand  of  a  bright  and  observant  man  of  the 
world."  —  Boston  Gazette. 

"  If  Mr.  Fawcett  had  never  written  any  other  novel  than  this, 
it  would  have  been  sufficient  to  stamp  him  as  a  writer  of  fiction 
of  the  first  rank  among  modern  American  authors.  It  is  in  all 
probability  the  best  story  that  has  yet  come  from  his  pen. 
Among  the  haut  ton  of  which  he  writes  he  is  perfectly  at  home, 
his  language  is  both  graceful  and  natural;  his  action  frequently 
dramatic."  —  New-York  Star. 

"  Mr.  Fawcett  has  been  particularly  happy  in  his  pen  pictures 
of  American  types  of  literary  men  and  women,  and  his  analysis 
of  the  shifting  sands  of  pur  society  is  deep  and  searching. 

"  New  York  society  is  a  somewhat  well-worn  target  for  our 
younger  American  writers,  but  Mr.  Fawcett  shoots  with  a 
polished  and  barbed  arrow  and  leaves  his  shaft  quivering  in  the 
very  centre."  —  Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  fine  art  in  the  book;  pages  upon 
pages  are  executed  with  the  superb  skill  of  a  master;  the  words 
are  culled  with  the  nice  perception  of  a  poet  and  the  accuracy  of 
a  linguist;  the  portraitures,  excepting  the  bouffe  group,  succeed 
each  other  like  cameos  in  a  cabinet  of  jewels.  The  dialogue 
sparkles  with  epigram  and  wit,  and  there  is  scarcely  a  lapse  of 
common-place  even  in  the  pauses.  No  lover  of  the  art  of  word- 
painting  can  turn  the  pages  without  genuine  admiration  for  the 
author."  —  New-York  Home  Journal. 


TINKLING    CYMBALS. 

"A  strong  and  wholesome  book."  —  New-York  Tribune. 

"A  novel  which  would  -be  especially  beneficial'  to  society 
people,  and  to  people  anxious  to  enter  the  '  best  society,'  inas- 
much as  it  principally  deals  with  these  two  classes.  Mr.  Fawcett 
always  writes  of  what  he  knows,  and  in  this  story  has  made  his 
characters  strikingly  natural,  and  yet  original." — American, 
Queen. 

"  He  has  the  dramatic  faculty  which  makes  any  thing  that  he 
•writes  very  readable." — Kan-Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Their  faithful  delineation  reveals  a  sense  of  the  eccentric  and 
the  humorous  that  is  delicious,  but  rare  in  works  of  American 
fiction.  It  is  the  best  description  we  have  of  Newport  fashionable 
society  life  as  governed  by  that  of  New  York;  and  its  satire, 
humor,  and  literary  skill  are  very  strong  and  effective."  —  Boston 
Globe. 

"  Never  have  our  social  frivolities  and  shams  been  scourged 
with  a  more  cutting  lash."  —  New-York  Tribune. 

"  Admirable  and  piquant  sketches  and  novelettes  of  New-York 
life  and  society,  rich  in  original  types  and  vivid  portrayals. 
Fawcett  is  one  of  the  best  of  our  younger  novelists."  —  Beacon. 

TICKNOR    &,    CO.,    BOSTON. 


EDGAR    FAWCETT'S    WORKS. 


THE    HOUSE    AT    HIGH    BRIDGE. 

"  It  is  not  often  so  good  a  novel  appears  in  these  days.  We  can 
commend  it  heartily  to  all  those  who  enjoy  Trollope's  stories  of 
English  home-life;  and  we  are  delighted  to  see  an  American  who 
is  treading  in  the  old-fashioned  footsteps  of  that  pleasure-giving 
English  novelist."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"There  is  plenty  of  entertainment  in  the  book.  No  one  will 
fail  to  finish  it  after  once  getting  under  way  in  it,  and  there  is 
not  a  dull  line  in  it." —  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  And  in  the  matter  of  dramatic  construction  Mr.  Fawcett  may 
safely  be  said  to  stand  alone;  no  living  American  or  English 
novelist  equals  him  in  this  respect,  and  the  best  French  masters 
must  admit  him  their  peer.  The  plot  of  'The  House  at  High 
Bridge,'  for  example,  is,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  nearly  faultless. 
Its  movement  is  quiet,  steady,  undemonstrative,  but  at  every 
turn  it  gathers  strength  and  significance;  no  touch  that  can  add 
to  the  effect  is  missed  or  misapplied,  and  yet  nothing  is  forced  or 
exaggerated."  —  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE,  in  New-York  World. 

"In  '  The  House  at  High  Bridge,'  there  is  a  pleasant  culmin- 
ation of  his  past  experience,  and  the  beauty  of  his  sentences  and 
perfection  of  his  plot  produces  a  most  felicitous  and  happy 
volume." —  The  Decorator. 


SOCIAL    SILHOUETTES. 

Being  the  Impressions  of  Mr.  Mark  Manhattan. 

"Mr.  Fawcett  in  this  volume  has  shown  a  skill  in  analysis 
which  makes  him  the  most  formidable  rival  of  Henry  James, 
while  most  readers  of  James'  later  work  will  admit  that  Mr. 
Fawcett  seldom  indulges  in  the  hair-splitting  style  or  the  tedious 
mannerisms  of  the  author  of  '  The  Bostonians.'  "  —  San-Francisco 
Chronicle. 

"  In  a  strain  of  humorous  satire  the  essayist  deals  with  some  of 
the  most  glaring  social  follies  and  affectations  of  his  age  and 
country.  'The  Young  Gentleman  who  Succeeds,'  is  a  rebuke  to 
some  silly  preferences,  'A  Millionaire  Martyr,'  is  not  without 
pathos  in  its  stern  reproof  of  the  heartlessness  of  certain  nomelles 
riches-  'The  Gentleman  who  is  Glib,'  is  a  story  of  conquest  in 
•which  we  side  with  the  victor.  Other  suggestive  titles  are:  '  The 
Lady  who  Reformed,'  'The  Destroyer  of  Firesides,'  'The  Lady 
with  a  Son-in-Law,'  '  Au  Anglo-Maniac  with  Brains.'  "  —Mon- 
treal Gazette. 

"  The  author's  work  is  both  delicate  and  accurate."  —  Town 
Topics. 

"  It  must  at  the  end  be  confessed  that  it  is  supremely,  unquali- 
fiedly entertaining.  It  is  a  book  to  be  taken  up  in  a  tired 
moment,  to  be  tossed  down,  perhaps,  at  the  end  of  a  chapter,  but 
never  to  be  lost  sight  of  until  the  very  last  page  is  turned."  — 
Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

T1CKNOR    &    CO.,    BOSTON. 


WORKS   OF 

EDWIN   LASSETTER   BYNNER. 


AN    UNCLOSETED    SKELETON. 
By  EDWIN  LASSETTER  BYNNER  and  LUCRETIA  P.  HALE,    i  vol. 

32010.     Uniform  with  "  Penelope's  Suitors."     50  cents. 
A  very  dainty  and  charming  little  story,  quaintly  and  appropriately  bound. 

AGNES    SURRIAGE. 

A    Romance    of    the    Massachusetts    Province,      i    vol.     i2mo. 
$1.50. 

The  charm  of  the  tale  lies  in  its  pathetic  central  conception,  in  the  brightness 
and  grace  of  the  general  handling,  and  in  the  singularly  faithful  and  realizable 
handling  of  the  social  atmosphere  of  the  old  Colonial  days. —  The  Academy 
(London). 

It  is  wonderfully  picturesque  in  its  scenes.  Its  historic  accuracy  makes  the 
book  almost  a  living  panorama  rising  from  the  past.  The  dramatic  power  of  this 
series  of  living  tableaux  is  remarkable,  and  the  story  is  one  that  will  take  rank 
among  the  few  great  works  of  creative  literature.  —  Boston  Traveller. 

DAMEN'S    GHOST. 

$1.00.     In  paper  covers,  50  cents. 

A  book  which  commands  remarkably  the  reader's  attention.  —  Boston  Globe. 

The  dramatic  interest  of  the  story  is  very  strong,  and  the  mystery  is  cleverly 
concealed  until  the  critical  moment  —  Boston  Gazette. 

PENELOPE'S    SUITORS. 

i  vol.     32mo.     Quaint  antique  binding,  and  tied  with  cords.     50 
cents. 

A  dainty  little  romance  of  the  days  of  Governor  Bellingham,  in  the  old  Massa- 
chusetts Province. 

Few  writers  of  the  day  have  so  well  caught  the  old-time  savor,  which  is  much 
enhanced  by  the  archaic  printing,  the  long  s's,  catch-words,  and  so  on.  Alto- 
gether, the  volume,  though  of  vest-pocket  sire,  is  a  thoroughly  charming  bit  of 
book-making.  —  N.  Y.  Commercial  A  dvertiser. 

A  dainty,  old-fashioned  little  volume,  —  a  most  delightful  story  of  Boston  in 
Colonial  days.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  whole  affair  is  a  delicate  jeu  d^esfrit,  and  will  delight  gentlewomen  as 
well  as  the  man  of  taste.  —  The  Beacon  (Boston). 


*»*  Sold  by  booksellers.      Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price,  by  the 
publishers, 

TICKNOR  AND   COMPANY,  Boston. 


A  Brilliant  New  Novel,  by  the  Author  of  "  The 
Story  of  Margaret  Kent." 

OUEEN  MONEY. 


1  vol.    12mo.    $1.50. 


"  Queen  Money,"  by  the  author  of  "Margaret  Kent,"  is  a  novel  whose  interest 
begins  with  the  first  page  and  sweeps  right  on  to  the  last  without  interruption. 
There  isn't  a  dull  page  in  the  book.  It  is  written  with  a  power  that  the  reader 
recognizes  at  once.  The  master  hand  is  there  and  is  felt,  and  of  course  the  in- 
terest is  heightened  by  the  fact  that  it  is  a  nineteenth  century  story,  an  American 
story,  a  New  York  story,  and  a  story  of  to-day.  The  conversations  are  exceed- 
ingly clever,  and  the  wit  and  brightness  of  the  book  are  beyond  question.  It  is 
full  of  sharp  and  amusing  dialogue.  Whether  we  read  it  as  a  study  of  character, 
a  picture  of  society,  or  merely  a  story  of  entertaining  plot  well  told,  it  is  equally 
sure  to  interest  us.  It  is  clean,  entertaining,  and  suggestive,  —  one  of  those  books 
\vhich  hold  you  until  you  have  finished  them,  and  whose  story  runs  in  your  nead 
after  you've  read  it,  as  if  it  were  a  real  experience.  — Hartford  Courant. 

The  author  of  the  story  of  "  Margaret  Kent "  has  written  another  capital 
novel,  and  one  which  should  be  read  immediately.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  readers  of  "The  Story  of  Margaret  Kent"  will  expect  in  "Queen 
Money  "  a  story  worth  reading  and  study,  and  they  will  not  be  disappointed.  If 
many  men  and  women,  feverish  and  restless,  and  breathing  the  spirit  of  these 
modern  times,  —  an  anxiety  for  sudden  wealth,  —  could  read  the  story  and  take  in  its 
lessons,  it  would  be  well.  The  story  is  plain  and  simple,  and  reads  more  like 
episodes  in  the  lives  of  real  men  and  women  than  a  romance.  The  characters  are 
natural,  never  strained,  evenly  drawn,  and,  in  a  literary  sense,  wholly  excellent. 
—  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

Inimitable  as  was  "The  Story  of  Margaret  Kent,"  the  present  novel  of 
"Queen  Money  "  is  a  far  more  complete  novel,  considered  as  a  work  of  art,  and 
also  in  point  of  interest.  In  fact,  there  can  be  no  hesitancy  in  pronouncing  that  it 
will  not  only  be  the  novel  of  the  season  but  even  of  this  decade.  It  is  a  story  of 
New  York  life  ;  keen  in  its  characterizations,  vital  with  the  electric  spirit  of  the 
day.  In  the  guise  of  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  modern  novels  the  life  of 
to-day  is  held  up  to  the  mirror,  and  the  false  and  the  ignoble  is  relentlessly  dis- 
criminated from  the  true  and  noble.  There  is  no  effort  made  to  moralize,  but  he 
•mho  runs  may  read.  The  author's  pictures  of  the  most  salient  and  alluring  phases 
of  city  life  •  are  brilliant  in  color,  impressive  in  characterization,  full  of  life  and 
sparkle  and  movement,  and  hold  their  touches  of  deepest  pathos.  "  Queen 
Money"  is  a  novel  that  sweeps  every  chord  of  life. — Boston  Traveller. 


*%*  Sold  by  booksellers.     Sent,  fost-faid,  on   receipt  of  f  rice,  by  the 
publishers, 

TICKNOR  AND   COMPANY,   BOSTON. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


MM  25 '89 

FFB  2  7 1989 


